Like a Boss (29 page)

“It’s right here,” I said, tapping my cheek. I pointed at KajSiab’s tattoo. “And here.” I nodded at Soni. “There, too.”

KajSiab glanced at Onanefe. “What about him?”

“He’s still thinking about it,” said Onanefe, “though he agrees with the sentiment.”

KajSiab tapped her ever-present cricket bat against the sole of her boot. “Which is?”

He gave her the most sincere smile I’d seen him wear. “That we’re all in this together. Right?”

KajSiab mulled this over for a moment before giving him a curt nod. “Fair enough. But why hasn’t the Prez said anything? Shit, she could have printed up
flyers
or something by now.”

I looked at Soni, who shrugged:
You want to make the case, do it
. I felt like I was about to jump off a cliff into an ocean full of sharks. Hungry sharks. With machine guns. And herpes.

I cleared my throat and said, “Letty Arbusto Smythe is making this all happen. She’s shut down the Public, made the cops withdraw, and let our city fall apart.” I pointed at Onanefe. “She put out a hit on Onanefe, ’cause he’s part of the FOC. She wants this chaos.”

KajSiab’s face soured. “That’s insane. Why?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I know if she wanted it to stop, she would have done it by now.
I
want it to stop, and that’s what we’re gonna do. And we start by getting everyone out of their hidey-holes and acting like people.”

We rounded a corner, and the sweet smell of crushed cane washed over me. I wanted to turn right around and head back to the distillery. Soni was right: no one was going to talk, not even if I served all the rum in the world. I could leave right now and hole up until Letty finished doing whatever it was she planned.

We stopped in front of a ruined stall, a sign proclaiming
BEST CANE JUICE IN TOWN
flapping in the breeze. Two little boys, probably eight years old, crouched next to a smashed cane press. They started when I cleared my throat and brandished splintered cane stalks like swords. Both wore forest green Nortec United football jerseys. Their faces were smears of dirt and dust, and the ants that crawled over the press’s rollers ran over the boys’ sandaled feet.

I held out my hands and waited. The boys’ eyes were big, and they looked
through
me. I had no idea what these kids had seen in the past twenty-four hours, but the blank looks on their faces told me it had been horrible. I tried to make my face as calm and friendly as possible, which was a neat trick because the possibility of a face-full of splintered cane was terrifying.

After a minute, they lowered the stalks. I hunkered down in front of them. “My name’s Padma. You two okay?” They kept staring.

I got the emergency date bars out of my trouser pocket, and the boys focused on the soft, brown rectangles in my hands. “Do you have families?”

The boys didn’t take their eyes off the bars as they nodded.

“These are yours,” I said, “but only if you run and tell everyone to bring whatever food and cooking fuel they have to Hawa Said’s stall, okay? Tell them Padma Mehta’s throwing a party, and that it’s not a joke.”

I handed them the bars, and they snatched them so fast their fingernails scratched my palms. They stuffed the bars in their mouths and ran away, full tilt boogie.

“We’re calling it a party now?” said Soni, her arms crossed.

“Anything to get people to remember that we’re not supposed to live like this.” I stood up and showed Soni the red marks on my palms. “One week, and we’ve got kids digging in the compost bins for food. Sweet Working Christ.”

“It’s only going to get worse,” said KajSiab. “All those stories we got about the Tsokusa Blight, about how the food just turned to dust.” She shuddered.

“We don’t have to worry about
that
,” I said. “We’re dealing with a distribution problem, not supply.”

“Not yet,” said Soni.

“You know, you are just a radiant ball of sunshine right now,” I said. “I look forward to your positive attitude helping with the proceedings.”

She quirked her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about Millie.”

Oh, shit. Sixteen hours, and I hadn’t thought to ask about her wife. “You want to check on her?”

“Of course I do. But I can’t. Because my comms don’t work.” She plucked her radio off her belt and waved it around before tossing it on the ground. “Plus the battery is now dead.”

“We’ll get you a battery.”

She laughed, a sound like sandpaper on glass. “Terrific. I’ll be able to keep hearing nothing but static.”

“I can send a runner,” said KajSiab.

“No, thank you,” said Soni. “For now, I’m going to stick with Padma’s plan. Assuming there
is
a plan?”

“Of course,” I said, making a mental note to ignore Soni and have KajSiab check on Millie anyway. We rounded the corner to Hawa’s stall. “And it starts with a proper breakfast.”

Black scorch marks streaked up the pourform sides of Hawa’s stall. The chicken wire that had covered the front lay in the market aisle. A nightmare of nicks and scratches decorated the door. The embroidered sign and the crocheted doll were on the ground, stomped flat and darkened by boot treads. I banged on the door and put my head close. “Hawa! It’s Padma Mehta!”

“I don’t care!” came a muffled reply from behind the door.

“Hawa, I need to get my rum!”

“Now I don’t care even more! Go away!”

“What, are you reneging on our deal?”

“Our deal didn’t cover riots! And, yes, this time, there
was
a riot! Those animals tried to burn down my stall!”

“Your stall is made of unburnable pourform. Plus you’ve got fans and secret lights and all kinds of stuff in there.”

“And they’re only good protection as long as my door is closed and locked! Take your angry mob and piss off!”

“There is no mob! It’s me and Onanefe and KajSiab and Soni Baghram.”

There was a rustle behind us. I spun around, ready to fight, only to see the two boys who had been scavenging cane. They had brought along two other boys. One of them held half a baguette. The other held a mesh bag with two oranges. I crouched where I stood so I could get at eye level with the youngest. His football jersey was three sizes too big and came down to his knees. I smiled. “Are these your brothers?”

He shook his head. “Friends.”

I nodded to the older boys. “I’m glad you brought something. Are your parents coming?”

“My dad says you’re full of crap,” said the tallest boy. “Says this is all some plot to get people to come out and get killed.”

“But you’re here.”

He shrugged. “I’m tired of hiding. We’re in this basement, and it smells like farts.”

“Good reason to come out. We’ll get things started in a moment.” I banged on the door again. “Come on, Hawa. Everyone needs a little normality. Can we get some of that? Please? Or do you want me to send these kids back to the fart chamber?”

“I have no way of knowing if you’re telling the truth.”

“Are you kidding? Just turn on the cameras!”

“All my external cameras got smashed during the night. They got the backups, too. Nothing on the radio, the Public’s still out.”

“You still got food and light?”

“Why?” Her voice grew hard. “You want to try and take it?”

“No, but I had hoped you’d bring it out to the party.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard. The Padma Mehta I know wouldn’t be so stupid as to throw a party in the middle of turmoil.”

“I’m trying to calm things down because no one else will.”

“That’s the police’s job. Since when are you the police?”

“Since they were told to stand down.”

“Who would do that?”

“The Prez.”

Hawa laughed. “You know, of all the ploys to get me to open my door, this is a good one.”

“I’m not joking, Hawa. The higher-ups aren’t doing their job, so it’s up to the rest of us to calm things down.”

“By throwing a party?”

“You don’t think that’s the best time to fire up the grill and start passing the punch?”

“I hate punch.”

“Then I’ll get you some pineapple juice. Come on, Hawa! Would you turn away a neighbor?”

“We’re not neighbors!” she laughed. “You live in Brushhead! That’s way the hell over on the other side of town!”

“Yet I shop in Bakaara every week. I buy embroidery from you. I
talk
with you, and that makes us neighbors. All of us. And I’m asking you, as a neighbor, to come outside and break some bread with us.”

“I have plenty of bread in here, thanks.”

“But you don’t have
us
, and
we
are
inviting
you to join us. Would you turn aside my hospitality?”

This time, the silence dragged on for a good minute. There was nothing but silence from the inside of Hawa’s stall. I held my breath so I could hear anything: a murmured argument, a machete sliding out of a sheath. Nothing.

The door rattled, like someone was pressing on it from the other side. I put my ear close. “How can I trust you?” said Hawa.

“The same way we’ve always trusted each other,” I said. “You open up and take a risk.”

She laughed. “Good God, is that the best you’ve got? You really think that’s going to convince me?”

“Yes,” I said, “because you still have that fist tattooed on your face. You might not be a Ward Chair anymore, Hawa, but I know you still believe in what the Union stands for. An injury to one is an injury to all, and we need to work together to get justice for those injuries. It’s easy to stand together when it’s us versus the Big Three, but now we’ve got our own people screwing each other over. You wouldn’t have stood for that when you were organizing, and I don’t think you’ll stand for it now.”

I held my breath so I could hear whatever noises came from inside the stall. For a moment, there was nothing, then a gentle drumming against the door. “And you really think that asking everyone to put aside their grudges and have a barbeque is going to solve all this?”

“It’ll get us talking with each other instead of killing each other. I think it’s the start we need. And I don’t see anyone else trying it.”

“That’s terrible logic.”

I laughed. “It’s all I got left, Hawa. That, and all the rum I’ve got scattered around the city. Won’t you come out and join us?”

There was a
clack
like a rifle bolt, and I leaped back. A narrow panel in the door opened just enough for one of Hawa’s bloodshot and drooping eyes to peer out. I heard a faint tap and glanced down; the business end of a knitting needle pointed right at my chest from a second panel. “Anything happens to my granddaughter,” came Hawa’s voice from behind the door, “and I swear to God Almighty, Padma, you’ll be the first person I stick. This one’s extra sharp.”

“If anything happens, I’ll stick myself,” I said, holding my hands up.

Hawa’s eye flicked around at the people standing behind me before withdrawing into the shadows. The door slammed shut. Six
clacks
came from behind the door, and it flew open. Hawa took a cautious step out of the stall. She held her head high as she looked at us, daring anyone to make a move. She still had the needle, but she pointed it at the ground. “You know I take offers of hospitality seriously, right?”

“I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

She nodded. I held out my hands. “Are you going to join us?”

Hawa grunted and took my hands. She squeezed tight, then pulled me in for a hug that hurt. After thumping me on the back, she let go and said, “You know, kid, if you’re going to pull this in front of the mob, you’re going to get your head handed to you.”

“I hope the mob will smell what we’re cooking and join us.”

The boy with the oranges held up the bag. Hawa raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you’ll want me to bring something to this little shindig?”

“If you like,” I said. “I just need my rum.”

She nodded back into the stall. “Go in and get it. I didn’t bother to put it away. If another riot swept through, I was going to turn them into Molotovs.”

I froze. “You were going to mess with my rum?”

She shrugged. “I would have paid you back.”

“My rum is priceless.”

“It goes for thirty yuan a bottle at the konbini.” She took an orange from the kid, then motioned everyone to follow her inside. “It’s a good thing for you the Prophet – peace unto him – forbids me to profit from selling alcohol.”

“But you can hang on to it?”

She stopped in the doorway, the beads on her scarf clicking as she whipped her head back to me. “Holding isn’t the same as selling. It isn’t the same as using, either.” She patted the boy with the oranges on the cheek and entered the stall.

I followed her into the stuffy dark. Hawa’s granddaughter hadn’t moved from her spot, but the blanket she’d been working on had grown half a meter. A pair of sharpened knitting needles sat on the table within her reach. She only looked up as the four boys entered. Her nose wrinkled, and she went back to her purling.

Hawa ran her hands over the stars on the walls. Shelves and cabinets popped open, and she handed out jars of pickled turnips, loaves of vacuum-packed bread, and can after can of chickpeas. “How do you fit all this in here?” said Onanefe as he struggled with his stack of food.

“Excellent engineering,” said Hawa, kicking open the panel that had held my rum. “Plus twenty years of hiding stuff from the police.”

“Ahem,” said Soni, her arms full of water filtration packets.

“Oh, like you didn’t know what I was doing,” said Hawa.

“I knew you were never doing anything
dangerous
,” said Soni.

“I could have been.”

“Ladies, please,” I said. “You’re both badass. Can we get on with it?”

Soni grumbled and headed outside. I picked up the case of Old Windswept and gave it a gentle shake. The triangular bottles rattled against the sides of the crate, their bumpy sides clinking. A thin layer of dust coated the green glass, turning the rum inside the color of industrial pollution. I didn’t like to think of my rum like that, so I set the case down and gave each bottle top a wipe with the inside of my shirt. The bottles, and the rum, now looked more appealing.

Outside the stall, everyone had piled the food on the now-upright table. The kids had multiplied, probably summoned by the smell of the hibachi that Onanefe was fanning. A few other adults had arrived, and some of them had brought food: packages of fish jerky, wreaths of noodles, and a bunch of plantains. No one looked happy, and one Freeborn woman shot me dirty looks, but they milled about the table, waiting for an excuse to tuck in.