Bingo's Run (25 page)

She screamed, “You'z tha little sheet who says tha artis' motha is dead.”

I wanted to scream, “No! I'z innocent!” but there was no point; she was onto me. Her breasts, like giant mallets, banged up and down with her screams. Forget Wolf and his empty smile; forget
Dog, forget Peg Leg. Senior Father said there were six fears, but his fears were rubbish. No fear is greater than a rhino's charge. “Oh, God!” I prayed. She screamed, “You piece of rat filth. You wake me up in tha middle of tha night an' you say Thomas Hunsa motha is dead.” When her huge thighs wrapped in loose skin stamped the earth, even the Mercedes shook. She screamed, “How can you says a man's motha is dead?”

Dead-mother stories always work, but I did not tell this to the mallet-breasted rhino-riot. Hunsa had never once mentioned that his mother lived!

Rhino shrieked, “You are a pig! I cook all night for tha artis' ”—she pushed a hoof into the air—“and tha whole neighborhood cook for 'im. You are goat sheet. You'z a shameful sheep-arse hair. If I had my way, I would—”

A thunder-loud grunt interrupted the mad beast. It was not a normal Slo-George grunt, which sounded like “Uuuh”; it sounded more like “Stu.” I thought Slo-George might be telling her to stop. Wrong! The rhino turned from me to Slo-George. Her mad breaths slowed. She still breathed through her pumping snout but spoke gently now, like a schoolgirl. “Stew, you ask? Yes, I made that stew.”

Slo-George grunted again, a new grunt: “Bes'!” Slo-George said words when he wanted something!

The rhino's shoulders relaxed and she coughed almost like a lady. Her giant gleaming cook-pot eyes fluttered down. “You think my stew is tha best?” she said to Slo-George as if he was James Bond. The mad rhino looked down at me. “Now, that's a gentleman,” she snorted. Rhino sprayed me with spit. She flickered her long eyelashes at Slo-George. Her smile was big enough to put my head in. “Well, sir,” she said to Slo-George, turning her head the way they do in hooker bars. “What brings you to Hastings?”

Slo-George grinned. His mouth was almost as large as hers. His fat eyes opened wide. For the first time, I saw the color of Slo-George's eyes: two pots of warm lamb, banana, and rice stew. But there were flecks of red, too—hot spice. No words this time.

“Call me Mille,” Rhino said to Slo-George.

The runner finishes every run—you know that.

I ran past the two mountains of love, under the H
UNSA—MASTA HOUSE PAINTA
sign and into the artist's house. Hunsa stood in front of his yellow turtle, smoking. When he saw me, he glanced down at the bronze dish balanced on his orange armchair and joy filled his face. Tak! I had no white for him! I needed Hunsa's thinking to be wet mud; I needed him to pretend to be the caretaker of the artist studio, but Mrs. Steele got there too quick. She had the contract rolled up in her hand.

I said to Thomas Hunsa, loud and fierce, “This is Mrs. Steele, ya—she American art deala. She'z tha good frien' with Gihilihili.”

Thomas Hunsa shrank two feet. His eyes got wide. His fingers tightened on his bone-handled brush.

I nodded at him. “Ya, Mrs. Steele, she know Police Chief Gihilihili. She has licens' with him for all tha Masta's paintin's.”

I watched Hunsa. Memory plus fear equaled terror. The bone handle trembled. The Master's legs twitched. Before we got there, he had been happy in his house with his white, his paintings, and his smells. Now Hunsa looked at me. His eyes said, “Traita.” His mouth said, “Meejit, why you'z bring her here?”

I answered, “I ha' na choice—Gihilihili took me to Nyayo House. Then he torture me.”

Mrs. Steele pretended to look confused, as if she had no clue what I meant.

I said, “I tell tha American deala woman you tha special caretaka in charj of all tha paintin's. Right, you tha
caretaka, ya
?”

His eyes were shadows of shade. I said louder, to hammer the words in, “You jus' tha caretaka. You in charge of tha paintin's. Ya? You not the Masta. You not tha painta. You
jus tha caretaka
.”

A light—a small one—lit his eyes. He started to nod; his long, knotted hair and his body followed. He said, “Ya, I'z jus' the caretaker.”

Mrs. Steele turned away and stared at the yellow turtle on the canvas—it seemed to be alive. She looked from the turtle to the Masta. Her eyes dropped to Hunsa's bone-handled brush tipped in yellow. “You're him,” she said, breathless. “You are the Masta.”

“Na,” I said. “He jus' tha—”

Mrs. Steele interrupted. Her voice was loud and sharp. “Bingo, shut up! I know everything.”

“What ya know?” I said to Mrs. Steele.

She said, “Bingo, now stop! I know what you planned to do. How you discovered the missing Masta and how you and Father Matthew planned to sell the paintings in America as soon as you got there. You are using me to import the pictures to the U.S. Then you are going to dump me like a piece of garbage. Bingo, I know that you and that priest just used me from the get-go.” Mrs. Steele glared at me.

I looked at her as if she was on white (most whites are). Her face had turned from white to red. She said loudly, “Bingo, I know exactly what you planned with the priest. I know it all.”

“What, you mad!” I shouted. Toxic Kibera garbage must have gone to her head. “
You
win tha contract,” I said. “I signed Mr. Goerlmann your lawyer's contract propa legal.” My belly still hurt from my outing to Nyayo House. As if Mrs. Steele did not know what Gihilihili did to me!

Mrs. Steele went on, “Then you got that guy on the garbage mound to pretend to be Thomas Hunsa.”

I looked down at her filth-stained shoeless feet. That bit was
true. But who would ever think that a lunatic who lived in trash could be worth millions!

Mrs. Steele's face crumpled in anger. “Bingo, do you not remember what I asked you only days ago at the art gallery? Have you forgotten already?” I shook my head, but she went on anyway. “Bingo, I asked you what sort of man you want to be. Is this really all that you want for yourself—to be a scamming thief, cheating your way through life?”

Friends, hookers, stall vendors, and even little children have scammed me. But none like Mrs. Steele. I shouted at her, “You'z tha hustla. You'z tha cheat. You'z tha' liar! I know what you'z tol' to Mr. Steele in America. I know you said tha Masta's paintin's worth millions. I know you said that when you'z get tha paintin's you'z dump me. Ya! Like I'z jus' trash.”

Mrs. Steele's face looked as if it would explode. She opened her mouth but shut it. Her eyebrows closed together. “Bingo. I never said that.” Her voice went quiet. “What are you talking about? Who on earth told you that?”

I thought of my Charity. “Frien',” I said.

“Bingo, what friend of yours could possibly have heard me speaking to Mr. Steele?”

I paused. “The cleana,” I said. “She was in your room. She tell me
everything
.”

Mrs. Steele cocked her head. “The cleaning girl told you she heard me tell Mr. Steele that the paintings are worth millions and that I would dump you?”

I nodded. “Ya—she tell me everything.” Then I said it—I said what I had worked out. “That why ya pick me at St. Michael's. You'z come to Nairobi because you'z know about Thomas Hunsa. Father Matthew tol' you in Chicago and you come. You'z know the Masta's paintin's worth millions. Father Matthew tell you you have to get me to be your boy, because I'z the only one
who know where Thomas Hunsa live. You come here for the paintin's.” I hated her. “You neva come for me.”

Mrs. Steele was quiet. Her face was like a map of Kibera, confusion everywhere. She looked down at me. Then she knelt and looked at me eye to eye. She shook her head. “No, Bingo, you are totally wrong. The cleaner could not possibly have heard me speak to Mr. Steele. I got divorced from him two years ago. I got the Chicago galleries in the divorce settlement; Mr. Steele and I have not spoken for more than a year. I used the money I got in the divorce to come to Nairobi. That money is paying for your adoption. I went to Father Matthew because I am single and none of the American adoption agencies will let me have a child.”

Her voice went soft. “Bingo, I chose you because I think you are the most beautiful boy I could ever imagine being a mother to.”

I felt my eyes get full. It must have been the paint fumes. I tried to put the pieces together. Perhaps it was my head that had been smashed into potholes from all the killing, smells, and screams. I had been scammed too much; I trusted no one except me. But, for that second, I believed Mrs. Steele the way I believed the mouth in my head.

As I watched Mrs. Steele's face, the anger melted away and her skin went soft. She said, “Bingo, it was the cleaner who told me that she heard
you
speaking to the priest. The cleaner told me she heard
you
say to the priest that the paintings are worth millions and that you were going to get them from me. The cleaner said
you
discovered that Hunsa was the lost Master of Africa.” I looked over her shoulder. A picture of a blue woman looked back at me. She knelt in a red field, digging in the soil with her hands. Lots of two-leaf seedlings were around her; each leaf was a lip. Mrs. Steele went on, “Bingo, the cleaner said that she heard
you
talking to Father Matthew about how
you
would sell all the Thomas
Hunsa paintings in America and split the money with him. The cleaner told me that, once you sold the paintings for millions, you planned to dump
me
like garbage!”

“You crazy!” I said.

Mrs. Steele continued softly, “Bingo, it was the cleaner who told me you were trying to rip me off. She told me she heard everything you said on the phone to Father Matthew. She even told me about when your friend George stayed in your hotel room to plan it all with you.”

Slo-George could not plan a fire in a riot!

I spoke slowly. “Mrs. Steele, I neva call Fatha Matthew.”

Charity was the Trickster! Now I understood why the vodka in my room tasted like water.

Mrs. Steele looked at me for a long time and I looked back at her. Then she smiled. “I think the cleaner has played us.”

“Tricksta,” I said. I tried to smile. I remembered how Charity kissed the tears off my face, the way she kissed my crisp lips, how I wanted to be with just her in a field of yams, and how I wanted her forever. Trickster! It was as if the TV switched off and the inside of me went dark.

Mrs. Steele said, “Trickster, indeed.”

My head raced. Why did Charity do this to me? Was it just to mock me? Was it because I was going to America? Was it because I was a businessman? Maybe she did it the same way children kick a can—no reason, just something to do. I imagined that she laughed about me with her cleaner friend, Brick Ugly—both of them hysterical.

Mrs. Steele read my head and opened her arms. “Bingo, come here,” she said.

Some things are more important than hustle and scam. I took two steps across the Master's dirt floor and Mrs. Steele wrapped her arms around me. Her dress was soft on my face and her lips
were warm on my cheek. She smelled good, even though she had climbed over Krazi Hari's garbage. Then she put her lips on my forehead and kissed me along the three cuts put there by Senior Father: kiss after kiss, line by line. Her heat entered me just as it had when I was a boy and Senior Father cut my mask onto my face. Mrs. Steele held me tight to her body. I wanted to be under her skin, to hide under her shawl for a bit; just until the world ended—just for a second of pure, perfect silence.

“Bingo, I am sorry,” Mrs. Steele said.

I did not know if she understood everything I felt, but she understood enough. Words ran so fast in my head that I could not catch them. I wanted to say “Sorry” back, but I could not. Mrs. Steele pushed me away and looked at me. Her eyes shone all the colors of the Masta's paintings. “Charity got us,” she said.

Mrs. Steele and me, our skins burst. The Evil of Want and the Evil of Missing emptied out of us—together. Who ever knew we went together, Mrs. Steele and me? Mrs. Steele saw in me what I wanted in her. I wanted a mother; she wanted a son. Mrs. Steele was not Mama, but she was close.

I smiled and nodded. “Ya, tha Tricksta.” I thought of Senior Father's stories. That is the thing about the Trickster; you never know why they do their tricks. They just do them.

Thomas Hunsa spoke. “Millions,” he said.

Mrs. Steele and me: our time stopped right then.

Hunsa said, “Tha deala get less than fifteen percen', the Masta get at leas' eighty-five percen'.” He smiled and looked down at me.

I thought, Disasta! The whitehead can read. Hunsa had read the Kepha's contract and, more incredible, he remembered it. It makes big problems when too many people can read.

Hunsa's face got serious. He said, “At leas' eighty-five percen' to the Masta.” He looked at Mrs. Steele. “It in the contrac'. Kepha Kepha wrote it, all legal. Thomas Hunsa get eighty-five percen'.” Somehow his thinking had fallen to earth. I wished I had a hundred bags of white for him.

Mrs. Steele spoke. “Actually, that Kepha contract has been replaced with another one.” She handed Hunsa the Thaatima's rolled-up contract. “Look,” she said. “Masta, I just need you to sign on the last sheet.” She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Just beside where the other signature is.”

Hunsa unrolled the contract and turned the pages. I watched
his brown eyes; they did not move from line to line but darted from one page to the next. He glanced at the last page, shook his head, and laughed. “Na. I neva sign this.” Hunsa's gray dreadlocks shook. For a second, I thought the yellow turtle shook his head, too. Masta said, “American deala screw Thomas Hunsa. They give me five thousan' and sell tha paintin's for seventy thousan'. Tha meejit ma deela. That tha way it is.”