Making Wolf (18 page)

Rewind. The wife. Inherits sixteen million. Good motive, except she was already monied. Confessed to arguments, but the claim had been investigated. I did not see Diane doing it. Besides, how would she arrange it? She was too well-known to contact a hitman directly. I made a note to look into her associates, see if there was anyone unsavory. One place to start was my father; she mentioned knowing him. Hmm. There was the lover, too.

Also, secret police were following me. Were they trying to maintain the seal on their conspiracy? Did the government kill Pa Busi? Nobody believed he had any enemies, but maybe the government benefited from the conflict with the rebels and did not want an elder statesman mucking about with the status quo.

I had to be careful. Abayomi did not like the fact that I’d made progress. I decided not to update him anymore. I had to keep reminding myself that my aim was to live through this without pissing off any of my homicidal paymasters. Or shadowy state police. I had to slow down, wait for Nana, run it by her.

The phone rang. I closed my journal and answered it.

“Mr. Weston Kogi?”

“Wait. Don’t tell me: your husband.”

“Yes, sir. You did not call me back.”

“What is your name?”

“Clara. Mrs. Clara Efriti.”

I exhaled, not caring if she heard.

“If I could just meet you to explain. No obligation to take the case,” said Clara.

Not like I had anything else to do, and it did look like she was offering me money here.

“Okay. Where will you be?”

Clara Efriti was late.

We had agreed to meet at the central Ede bus station where scores of danfo, bolekaja, molue, okada, and taxis converged in a sweet, noisy chaos which they and the habitual passengers appeared to understand perfectly. There was no edifice to orient me. It was simply a wide-open space like a football field bang in the middle of town. Area boys and agbero roamed about, sometimes shouting, but in a good-natured way. Agbero were literally the “gatherers of crowds,” and their job was to corral passengers for the buses since there was no real queue system. They were loud of necessity and affected aggressiveness. They had to at least seem capable of violence to discourage fare dodgers.

Thankfully, there was no mud that day. I had to fend off the usual street traders, religion peddlers, and hooligans. It did not help that no one was in any kind of uniform unless you counted the white robes of the ascension prophets. You could only tell the passengers apart by their purposeful manner. I stood at the edge of the boiling mass near the road, waiting for Efriti. I wouldn’t be there if Nana hadn’t taken off somewhere, and it was a sure bet that she was angry with me. I had my back to the street, keeping my eye scanning the terminus, so I was surprised when a voice called to me from behind.

“Mr. Kogi!”

I turned to the voice, spun, and started running away the second I saw a gun pointing out of a car window.

I ran into the crowd, which now convulsed and became a mass of panicked people because of gunshots. I remember it was a Renault of some sort, red, window down, a man in the passenger seat aiming a black revolver my way. He was black and wearing sunglasses. I did not, at first, see the driver. I weaved through the fear-crazed people with my head low as bullets hit buses, shattered windows, but missed me. I hid behind a molue and peered back. The car had turned into the terminus and was negotiating the obstacle course of abandoned mass transit vehicles. No active shooting. I darted from cover to cover, silent as possible. It then occurred to me that I also had a gun, and, with shaking hands, I drew my weapon from the ankle holster.

I was sweating all over, including my palms. The grip I had on the gun was laughable, but I wasn’t amused. I crouched behind a danfo and peeped. The Renault had stopped, but the engine was still running. The man with the sunglasses was out and walking toward me with intent. I flipped the safety, took four quick breaths, broke cover, and fired five times at him. I saw his mouth open wide. He dropped to the floor and rolled to the left and out of sight behind a diesel storage drum. I missed him outright, but one of the Renault’s headlights exploded, spraying glass on the tarmac. I was back behind cover, mouth-breathing and wiping my hands dry on my trouser thighs. My heart would not slow. My right elbow and shoulder hurt from the recoil. I could feel the adrenalin in each one of my blood vessels, down to the capillaries in my eyes. I sidled to another vehicle and fired random shots in their general direction, each blast pumping testosterone into me, making me feel invulnerable. I was going to kill them both, and, after they were dead, I would still empty my clip into their bodies and even then I’d fuck the larger of the bulletholes so that my jism would follow their spirits down to whatever hell awaited them.

Then I heard two rapid reports and an abbreviated scream. I risked a look. The sunglasses guy was on the ground, supine, his lower torso hidden behind the diesel drum. There was a hole in the windscreen of the Renault on the driver’s side. Blood on the inner surface. A man was walking toward the car. He looked plump, but he was tall and wore braids tied into a knot. He opened the driver’s door, aimed, and fired once. The person inside twitched once and went still. The man reached in to touch something, then he turned to my direction and looked right at me. His face was odd, completely asymmetrical with one eye narrow and one slightly large. There were too many teeth in his mouth, which was slightly open. His face was pockmarked and textured with pimples. He dropped the handgun and walked away.

What in the name of all the copulating deities…?

Numbers.

I have always found them calming. It is not sorcery. I read somewhere that they occupy the mind, prevent it from focusing on anxiety or the source of it.

Two by two is four.

I was surely anxious.

Julius Caesar was stabbed twenty-three times.

I took deliberate breaths, drank my beer, sweated in the booth.

There are fourteen books in the Old Testament Apocrypha.

I could not reach Nana. Ditto Clara Efriti. On the seat beside me, my gun was cocked and ready.

Twelve mug stains on the table I was using.

It must have been Clara. Whoever the fuck she really was.

Six hundred and sixty-six. The number of The Beast. Buying and selling. Don’t leave home without it.

After the stranger killed my would-be assassin I ran and ended up in a bar. The Night Flash Point, it was called. There was a black-and-white television showing
The Exorcist
. There was a Chinese man at the bar and one listless barman, but otherwise the place was shrouded in darkness.

Two. The number of secret policemen who failed to protect me from the attack.

On TV, Linda Blair was interrupted by a news bulletin. Police all over the bus terminus. Close-ups of two dead people. One male, one female. No mention of me or the mystery protector. I was willing to bet the woman was Clara.

Where the fuck was Nana?

Seven. The number of seconds into the news bulletin after which they showed the identity card of one of the victims. The male. Farayola Ifriti. Private detective.

I had seen that kind of ID before.

I phoned Church.

“Bi oju ba ko oju, aala yoo to,” said Church. Which meant things are better sorted out face-to-face.

“One, two, buckle my shoe,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m thinking about numbers.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“Maybe.”

George Elemo. Cog in the Ministry of Justice wheel. Issuer of my P.I. license. The person Church and I were waiting for. This person who is the link between me and Clare Efriti.

“You don’t know of any killer in braids or dreads, Church? Don’t hold back from me now.”

“It is a myth that major players are known to each other, aburo. Or that they are generally known. The expiration business thrives on secrecy. So, no, I do not know your mystery savior.”

Church and I were waiting outside the ministry for George Elemo to emerge.

“We’ll have to kill him if your theory is correct,” said Church.

“It’s occurred to me,” I said.

People, workers, started leaving the ministry by four-thirty. I kept my gaze fixed on the employees. Church spent his time rating the women’s breasts and buttocks. He thought I was too grim, and I had to agree. The rage inside me was white hot, but glacier cool on the outside. You’d think we were just a couple of layabouts staring at chicks, sitting on a car.

“Is that him?” asked Church.

It was. He slipped from one of the side doors and made his unobtrusive way to the parking space.

“Yes, that’s George.”

“Skinny one, isn’t he?”

“Let’s pick him up.”

“You are insane. There are security cameras and ogberi all around. We’re going to follow him and wait for the most favorable time.”

Which is what we did. The stories Church regaled me with while we followed Elemo were too disgusting to recount. Taking him was a simple affair. Traffic slowed on our lane. Church left the car, sprinted up to George’s car, reached in, and switched off his engine, all without concern for witnesses, which kind of invalidated his earlier speech, but Churchill’s actions didn’t always make sense to me. George made no fuss and followed Church to our car. He did not seem surprised to see me. Church got into the backseat with George and said to me, ‘Make a U-turn, aburo.”

“Hello, George,” I said, looking into the rearview. I hate driving outside London, but necessity, invention, et cetera. “I know you don’t want to be seen with me, so this will be a short meeting.”

“I hope so,” said George. “I liked that car. It was a present.” He was irritated. Not the fear and trembling I expected.

Church poked him. “You won’t need it after today.”

“I surely will. I can’t walk to work,” George said.

Fuck this.

I stopped the car, drew my gun, and pointed it at his nose. Still no fear. I cocked the weapon. He raised his arms defensively and turned his head away. “You can’t kill me,” he said rapidly. “You can’t. Think about it, you mongoloid Holloway shit.”

Church punched him on the left ear, then clouted him from behind. George cowered, but not as much as I would have if I knew my time was up. I was curious.

“Why? Why can I not kill you?” I hated his calm. I wanted to abandon reason and shoot. I’d never shot anyone before, but then I’d never been this angry before. Assassination attempts will do that to a man.

Elemo actually smiled. “What do you think you know about me, Weston Kogi?”

I pressed the gun under his chin, dimpling the skin. “I know that you gave my details to Efriti. Probably for money. Efriti is…was a private detective who saw me as a rival. He probably had you looking out for PI registration applications. That way he could find out who his competition was and take them out of the market by shooting them. Keeps his monopoly alive. Everybody in Ede goes to him, I expect. He probably ran his usual scam: get his wife Clara to make a bogus plea about a missing husband. Set up the new PI. Me. Except it didn’t quite work and I’m still fucking here.”

George spat out of the window. “You did not start the story at the beginning, Mr. Kogi. You left out the part where I am identified as an asset in situ to the People’s Christian Army. You cannot touch me, boy.”

I looked at Church who had stopped smiling. He shrugged, but said nothing.

“You should count yourself lucky. I’m out of pocket with Efriti dead and his steady gratuity gone. There’s also the matter of my car. I could go right to Supreme Commander Craig to demand compensation of you. But I am understanding. I realize you have just escaped death and your blood is hot.”

“Understanding?” I said.

“Remove your firearm, then take me back to where I parked my car.”

“I—” I started but Church gently pushed the barrel aside.

“No, he’s right,” Church said. He smiled, a tight-lipped grimace. His eyes were narrow. “We apologize for the inconvenience.”

That night, as I prepared to attend the theater, I heard a news bulletin on the radio.

“In a bizarre twist to the story of the terminus shootings earlier today, George Elemo, a middle level worker in the Ministry of Justice was bludgeoned to death while being detained by police. This is the twenty-seventh death in custody this year in Ede.