Uncertainty

“So, when it all boils down,” Muhammad said, wheeling the high performance Cadillac north on Western Avenue, “you know your son was seeing the princess. You know who the princess was, in terms of her family. You know their relationship was serious, and you had extra security watching them both. But you know nothing else?”

From the passenger seat, Summers spread his hands and said, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Akbar grunted. Muhammad grinned.

“Is he always this politically correct?” Summers grinned as well.

“I’m the diplomat,” Muhammad explained. “Major Akbar is a soldier. In his line of work, knowing bullshit when you see it is, well, part of your work. Although, sir, I do agree. Something about your story seems…absent.”

“I have business associates, friendly and…otherwise,” Summers began. “This isn’t their type of move. They too would have done some research and figured who this young lady was. The child of a local, um, entrepreneur? Fair game for kidnapping. You have to understand, however, in my world? International incidents can be very bad for business. Do you have any idea what happens when a royal goes missing? Embassies, the Feds, folk such as yourselves. No,” Summers shook his head again. “Very bad for business. Whoever is involved in this, if there is a this, is not from my world. Profit above all else, and this will eventually interrupt profit.”

Muhammad turned right onto Vincennes Avenue and headed east.

“So what are we facing?”

Summers shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Akbar’s mobile rang. He grunted after answering it, and then snapped it shut. “Turn on the radio,” he ordered. Muhammad complied. “No,” Akbar said, shaking his head in disgust at the music that came through the speakers. Find me a news channel…”

Summers tuned the dial to an AM station, where they heard announced, “there are no further details regarding the coup, but stay tuned as we will update you on this swift change in government, and how economists feel it will affect the international value of copper, gypsum, uranium and oil.”

Summers looked blank.

Muhammad said, “Find the major,” and sped the vehicle in the direction of Summers’ home.

Akbar was already punching numbers, his jacket unbuttoned.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” Summers asked.

“The media usually gets it wrong, but we can’t take chances,” Muhammad replied tersely.

“Where is she?” Summers asked softly.

“In good hands,” Akbar retorted sarcastically. Muhammad was on his mobile, calmly instructing someone to alert the local police.

“Waste of time,” Akbar said when the other man rang off. “The way the State Department has been on us, they know. The embassy is probably already surrounded by federal police.”

Summers looked at both men. “Did you ever stop to think, this may have nothing to do with me? Or my boy? This may be about things on your side of the water.”

“Possible,” Muhammad said, braking in front of Summers’ home. “Your State Department has been privy to worse info and sat on it.”

“My State Department,” Summers answered wearily, “is no different than any other. We are all bad men in bad businesses, gentlemen. Try not to paint yours as any better because the people whom you do business for have their faces on currency in your homeland.” He alighted from the car, holding the front passenger door for Akbar to change places with him. Muhammad saw the hulking security man open the door for Summers, and then he roared off.

“Where are they?”

“Don’t know,” Akbar grunted. “They were going downtown to shop, but I haven’t had a check in for hours.”

“Shop?” Akbar asked cheekily. “Is that a euphemism for…”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Akbar said tightly. “This is our sovereign of whom you speak.”

One of Muhammad’s hands left the speeding car’s steering wheel. “The story is out there, Major. I am just asking if it is true.”

“If it is, it is none of our business,” was the reply the smaller man got.

“And if you know, you aren’t telling?”

“Muhammad,” Akbar began, “there are loyalties one must have. To their crown. To their duty. To their fellow officers, to their men. Soldiering is different from the diplomatic corps. They tell us whom to shoot, we shoot, and we keep going. We know whose side we re on, even if we are not sure of the cause which we have been ordered to fight. The rule is simple: WIN. To win, you have to be able to count on your chain of command, to inspire and believe in the ability of your men. It is that simple.”

“You keep each others’ secrets?”

“Two places in a man’s life inspire absolute loyalty: the battlefield, and the prison cell.”

“Major Makenju is quite familiar with both.”

“Let it go, Son,” Akbar pulled his weapon from under his shoulder and put it on the seat in front of him. “Some things are not germane to our mission.”

“Which is?”

“To secure Her Majesty as promptly as possible.”

The mobile stirred. Makenju awoke instantly.

“Yes?”

His feet swung over the bedside. He took care not to disturb the lump snoring gently next to him.

“I am not sure this line is secure. I will telephone you from a land line momentarily.”

He shrugged into his shirt and pulled on his pants, stopping only to grab the big automatic on the night table.

The covers stirred.

“What’s wrong, Ibrahim?”

“Majesty, I must leave you here, alone, momentarily. You must get dressed immediately. I will lock you in. Grab your things, leave the lights off, and dress in the bathroom. Stay in there until I return. Open the door for no one.”

“Ibrahim? What has happened?”

“Do as I ask, Ma’am. Your safety depends on it.”

Makenju opened the door cautiously, peered outside, and began to plod down the hall to the hotel office, praying Theo Morgan was still in for the day.

Muhammad caught pieces of Akbar’s conversation with Makenju, including the name of a city thirty mile south of Chicago.

“I know where it is,” he muttered, and swung the car onto Interstate 57 south, accelerating rapidly.

“What happened?”

“They ditched some State Department folk and came to some hotel out south.”

Muhammad kept his thoughts to himself.

“Hurry, Muhammad! The Major must not be thinking clearly. Although he used a land line, he still called my mobile. There is no way of knowing if that call was intercepted.”

“Shall I phone ahead for local law enforcement to secure this, ah, hotel?”

“Negative. I’ll call the embassy and have them contact the State authorities regarding our speed and urgency. This requires as little attention as possible, and small town folk love gawking where there are a lot of lights.”

“Yessir.”

“Look smart when we arrive, Muhammad. Safety off and round up the spout, ready to go.”

“Do you really think it’ll go there, Major Akbar?”

“I have learned it is better to be prepared than otherwise.” Akbar switched on the satellite radio and found the BBC. Moments later, there was a report on the coup in their homeland.

“Colonel Mbakwe? Is that who they said has claimed he now controls the government?”

Akbar shook his head. “I served under him. Good soldier. Good officer. Too bad he is an oath breaking sack of shit.”

“What will happen to him…”

“Once the forces topple him? The penalty for high treason is simple. Execution.”

“But Major Makenju is still alive…”

Akbar shook his head with emotion. “The Major never committed treason. His only crime was not knowing his place.”

Muhammad looked to press, but Akbar shook his head.

Akbar continued. “Mbakwe will have to fight off the loyalist forces. It doesn’t say which divisions are with him.”

“The Vice Admiral? Will he fight?”

“He is honor bound to, but his titles are ceremonial. He was a good enough sailor in his day, but something like this requires men who are used to bullets and issuing battlefield orders under fire. He has spent the last twenty one years, to his chagrin, being a hand holder at dignified functions. Know, in the interest of him being the spouse of a royal? They need to get him out of the country and let the real fighters fight. He would just be in the way and a morale killer if captured.”

“Will he run?”

Akbar shot Muhammad a sideways glance. “He is not a coward…but he is not an active military man. He is wise enough to follow the instructions of his security team and remove himself from harm’s way.”

The Cadillac took the exit at 75 miles an hour.

“There’s the place,” Akbar pointed. The sign was clearly visible from the expressway.

Muhammad nodded. He ran the red light, made a quick left, and pulled into the circular drive. Slamming the shifter into park, he pulled a heavy automatic from under his shoulder, pulled the slider, and nodded. Akbar’s huge 357 was in one hand, his other was on the door release.

“Let’s go. Look alive, soldier.”

More Koor

Koor didn’t pay off the cops.

Chicago police aren’t as corrupt as lore makes them. In many cases, merchants in rougher neighborhoods allow Chicago’s finest to eat for free in their establishments because they want a regular police presence. Free sandwiches and coffee are significantly cheaper than hiring a security service staffed, in many cases, by the same cops who would show up for the 911 call.

So give them what they want and get armed guards in your store the hood does not need to work its violent street corners.

That is all fine and dandy. Until the local news shows up minutes after a shooting and finds seventeen uniformed cops and three detectives shooting the breeze three doors down from the scene, gorging on Cheez-Os.

It’s not the community that gets mad. Suburban whites get upset; fearing one of the hooligan’s aunties will escape that block and come live among them, thus making their community a proxy home for said hooligan when he gets parole.

Suburban Blacks get mad and pack school auditoriums looking to pass new real estate taxes to keep out “Those peoples”. They don’t mind that their schools are failing and their kids have major issues. They just want them to have issues while pronouncing their “t”s and “r”s.

The manufacturer of Cheez Os is livid that its product is shown on national TV being consumed by porcine slobs whose gun belts divide their bodies like constricted equators. After spending millions showing that Cheez Os buff you up like Damon from Friday After Next.

So then the Office of Professional Standards gets involved, hardworking cops get suspended or lose their pension, the mayor is forced to attend, again, a Black church service, again, looking lost. Lousy cops know the system and skate scott free to eat Cheez Os another day.

And white parents ban their kids from eating Cheez Os.

Koor charged the cops like he charged everyone else. At one point, he thought of implementing a cop surcharge, but he really had nothing against cops. Hardworking guys who got little credit and usually got no loyalty from their superiors when the chips were down. Pretty much like everyone else. It’s not like they were ministers. He charged ministers for the meal and the dishes, which he broke after they left.

So cops, when they were a few bucks ahead, were happy to eat at Koor’s. They could come in, get a meal on their lunch, and just enjoy the food. And ogle the waitresses, many of whom were unimpressed. Many of their boyfriends packed bigger guns than the boys in blue dreamt of toting.
One sidled up to Koor and offered him friendly advice one day.

“This neighborhood is shaky. You thought about getting a gun?”

Koor thought it over. “Nope. Where should I buy one? A gun shop?”

The cop shook his head like he was shooing so many flies.

“Oh, hell no! Those places will rob you blind!”

“Then where?”

“Be careful of street dealers. Their weapons usually got a coupla murders on them…”

“Uh, don’t you lock those guys up?”

“Hell, no man, I’m not ATF. I’m Patrol. Backbone of the department. I stick here I can retire without my piece ever clearing its holster.”

“Oh. So where should I get a god, legal gun?”

“You in good with any ministers?”

Koor groaned inwardly and said, “Not at the moment.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. They have the best. Well, look. Plenty of the Hindus and Pakis in the neighborhood? That own the liquor stores? It’s like seventeen on this block. They got good connects. Geez, guy three doors form you has a NICE rocket launcher to keep his Flaming Hots his…no, if you can’t get a good piece form a minister, and hell, its thirty churches on this block, then see a storekeeper.”

“What about a gangbanger?”

“You ever wonder why churches and Paki stores don’t get robbed, Pal?”

The gun idea had to wait. For security, however, Koor had arrived at a rather unique idea, almost by accident.

They showed up early one morning, three serious looking young men in dark suits, all wearing glasses, faces shining like they were wearing vertical halos.

“Help you?” Koor grunted, laying down the knife and slab and wiping his hands on his apron. He walked around the counter and stuck out his hand to the one closest.

The man clicked his heels, smiled, and shook Koor’s hand, clasping it in both of his,

“Brother Mitchell…”

Koor shook his head. “No sir, we are not relations.”

The man looked confused. Koor thought he might have interrupted his train of thought. He tried again.

“Call me Koor.”

The man began again. How, Koor wondered, do their faces get that shiny? These guys radiate health.

“Brother Koor…”

“Koor…”

“MisTER Koor…”

“Koor…”

The man looked at him askance and leaned in.

“You for real?”

Koor grinned. “Yup.”

“Let’s talk.”

They took a seat, just the two of them, in the back booth. The other two suits stayed by the glass front door.

“Here’s where we are,” the man, whose name was Kareem, said. “I got a crew of guys. We sell our newspapers. A new business provides us with a market. Look, no organization is perfect, but this is the best thing the Black man ever had. Take the good with the bad.”

“Oh, OK,” Koor said.

Kareem looked at him sideways again. “That’s it?”

Koor rose, laughing. “Yeah. Just hit up my customers as they LEAVE, not on their way IN.”

Kareem laughed. “I got it.”

One of the suits was jumping up and down and pointing to the sky. “Look! There it go! There it go!”

Koor raised his eyebrows.

Kareem shrugged. “He’s new. Enthusiastic. Forget it.”

“Hey, Kareem?”

“Yes sir?”

“Food’s not halal, but ya’ll can eat it. Help yourselves. Just keep the hooligans from acting up outside my spot.”

The shiny bald man smiled and put out his hand. “You got it.”

Koor shook it.

Later that day, a black man with a fez walked in.

“My BROTHA!” he announced to Koor, who was now working the grill. Koor ignored him. Beef ribs are not like pork ribs. Beef ribs are high maintenance. If you want a place where the hoods, cops, hustlers made men Muslims and mobsters can eat in harmony, the beef must be consistent.

“My BROTHA!”

Koor eyed the man evilly. A couple of the cops looked up and resumed their barbecue. As a rule, cops do not fear religious fanatics but dread the paperwork involved in plugging them at will.

“My BROTHA, HEAR ME!”

A rib overcooked. Koor grabbed a steel grill scrubber and leaped over his counter to commit mayhem. What stopped him was a large black man, bespectacled and with close cropped hair. The man was dressed in all black and was accompanied by a long haired, raven beauty.

“What?” Koor shouted in exasperation.

“Fool,” the large man bellowed, “I want some ribs! Get your skinny ass back over that counter and serve me that piece over cooking there. I saved you from a double dime in the joint!”

Koor liked to argue but he had come to love not wasting meat. He retreated and began serving up barbecue.

The man with the fez opened his mouth. All he got out was, “My Broth…” when the large man in black calmly put a newspaper in his open orifice.

“You wanna knock that shit off?” the large man said without emotion.

Fez wearer was about to respond when the big man jerked his head towards the door.

“I think those cats got the newspaper concession, and they ain’t from your neighborhood. Get it?”

The man looked outside and saw several grim, suited young me holding stacks of newspapers milling around the exit doors. The larger man pulled a bill from his pocket.

“Buy a paper from them, and be on your way,” he advised.

The man took off his fez, nodded his head, and complied.

The cutie with the hair like weave sighed and said, “Theo, you’re incorrigible!” as Koor led them to a table.

“Hate it when you use big words,” the big man laughed.

Koor just looked on.

Later that afternoon, during the slow period, Koor sat sipping a coke in a booth. Brother Kareem came in, beaming.

“Thank you , Koor! Catching them on the way out was MOST profitable! We got the truth out in record numbers! Even the Caucasians made purchases!”

Koor nodded slowly. “That’s cause beef barbecue makes your bowels move. Something to read helps.”

Kareem looked at Koor intently.

“What you looking at, Koor?”

“There,” Koor began. “What is that? A daytime night club? I’ve never seen so many Lincolns, Benzes, Jags, and Caddies. I even saw a Maybes, and Infinitis are like but so much popcorn. I am in the wrong business. What is that?”

Kareem adjusted his glasses and said somberly, “Oh, Koor, that’s the Laundromat, man.”

Koor gnawed a toothpick. “Really? I mean, what? All them luxury cars in the Laundromat parking lot?”

“Oh,” Kareem said sadly, “folk will find ways to push a luxury car. You may have to park it in front of a tent. But the laundry always has to get done.”

Koor shook his head. “Why not forgo the car and get a nice place with your own washer and dryer?”

Kareem shook his head.”Some of us don’t think like that. Plus, if you have kids, the Laundromat is where you see and be seen. Where else can a woman check out a man’s ride AND whether or not he leave skid marks in his skivvies? And women leave bras to all over the place to dry. A woman comes to the Laundromat braless and in her skimpiest, oldest clothing to wash, just to get the good stuff clean.”

Koor watched. “Is that woman loading garbage bags into a new S class?”

Kareem studied the situation. “No,” he said matter of factly. “That’s last year’s model. The new one is three cars down. See the young lady with the long hair? In the fur? The one carrying her clothes out in her arms like a baby? No. That’s the new S class. With the AMG kit.”

Well, well well. It started with a lesson in security and ended with an understanding of the market. So why was he sad? Koor sighed.