The technicians in the underground laboratory of Maksai's palatial compound have been at it for weeks. They were actually quite pleased when Tabu borrowed one of the totems because for those few days, they did not have to worry about trying to figure out their task.
"Make them work," Maksai had told them when he first brought them the silver box containing his totems.
In words, it was an easy task, but in practice, the team of fifteen knew it to be impossible. The lab was high-tech, the kind of place where miniaturized jolt harmonizers and particle regulators rubbed shoulders with machines that went "Ping!" and computers spat out computations faster than the ancient tech of their ancestors. But that was the problem. This was mostly just technology bought or stolen through piracy or barters that would make most sensible people cringe. Yet despite all this tech, the technicians were constantly grumbling among themselves the lack of decent Wi-Fi, and lacking that, the books that they would have needed to figure out such ancient complexities as the totems.
Technology, they were finding, was no substitute for knowledge, nor even wisdom.
While none of the technicians would admit this to their chief administrator, General Maksai, all felt his plan to be sorely short-sighted. In fact, many proposed they actually try the single method that they were told would work: to find someone of stout heart to bind the totems to. But thanks to Maksai's greedy insistence that only he could possess them, there was simply no way to get them working.
It all came back to a simple equation: No honest Keeper, no working totems.
Still, they had their jobs to do, so they switched on all their computers, struggled with the spotty internet connections, tried to arrange the acquisition of some books to help with significant failure, and ran the machines.
They had tried everything. They used electrocution to try and jump start the totemic connection with a slave, but that only resulted in crispy slave and the lingering stench of roast meat. They tried force, but doing so only destroyed the machines that they were pounding the totems with. They tried fire, but the temperatures they were able to reach could not even singe the totems. Besides, Maksai pointed out that the point was to unleash the powers, not destroy the totems. He had one of the junior members of the team beheaded for such poor decision-making.
The only thing they had not tried yet was to strap their prisoner, Buddy Baker, into a harmonizer in the hopes that his powers of the Red would somehow activate the totems in the American's favor.
After requesting that Buddy be beaten senseless (they knew the man's reputation and did not want him coming to with the ferocity of a viper to beat them up), they had him dragged to them. A foreigner that they knew only by the rumors running through the compound, brought the American to them with the look of a cat that had gotten the canary. Animal Man looks a mess. He does not dribble blood everywhere, but his face looks like a stress ball, one of those poofy things that collapses with pressure, and molds back into shape. The only problem with that analogy is that Buddy's face has not returned to its natural state. It is swollen, bloody, and abrasions leak red juice from thick swellings.
A quartet of soldiers armed with machine guns and tranquilizer pistols bring the unconscious man into the uncomfortable metal chair set out in the middle of the room. Once his hands, ankles, and neck are strapped in, they lather up the assessor cups and thuwp them into place on his chest, head, arms and thighs. These assessment cups reach back to the Mountain totem, which Maksai has given to them for the day to use. A series of computer readouts will monitor any kind of personal connection reaching between Baker and the totem. As a current pulses through the machine's conduits, their telemetry screens light up. The technicians wait patiently while they await results.
Seconds range into minutes, and boredom soon takes them over, and when one of the junior techies starts quietly discussing the latest football match between Congo and Sudan, the lead technician has the process stopped.
"Try the Wave," the head technician suggests.
The one totem is switched out for the other, and the results are just as successful as they were with the previous totem.
"Wake him up," the head says, after they switch off the machines again.
"Is that wise?" asks the junior member whose attention is so distractingly drawn to sports. "If the totem bonds to him, would that not make him a great danger to us?"
Despite the young man's preoccupation, he makes a good point. It truly is one thing that everyone has been thinking, though the head feels that such things are not the youth's concern. "If Maksai says he wants us to try all possible means to get the totems working, then we're to do that. Regardless of what happens to us or to Maksai in the process. Now wake him up!"
One of the technicians rubs some smelling salts under his nose, and though he groans and winces at the brutality of his recent abuse, Buddy Baker comes to with a nod and a snort.
"A lab. Too bad it's not a china shop." He looks around him, at the various technicians going about their business, pulling levers and pressing buttons and taking notes on their clipboards, but while several are talking quietly, none says anything to him. Undaunted, Buddy continues with his tale. "That's when you're supposed to say 'Why?' And then I'd say, 'Because this bull is gonna let loose like one in a china shop!'"
The lead technician doesn't speak a word of English and has no interest in the American's thoughts. Instead, he turns to one of the others. "Now, before he rallies and utilizes his powers of the Red."
A switch is thrown and an electrical current flares between Buddy and the Wave totem.
Buddy groans as the current rips through him. His muscles clench at the blast of energy. The assault hurts, but to him, this is just another session of torture, something to be expected when he is held prisoner by people who don't like individuals with strange and wonderful powers.
"Sir, we're detecting some response to the totem, but I can't quite make it out. It seems to be entirely focused in on the prisoner."
The head technician moves behind his subordinate and looks the data over. At least this is a step in the right direction. The readout shows some kind of telemetry between the man and the totem, but he honestly has no idea what it means. There is no harmony, and he rules out the Wave possibly bonding to the American. Nor is there any sort of harmonic dissonance that would consume the American – at least not the way the guinea pig was consumed by the other totem. These readings are different, they move back and forth, from man to totem. "It is almost like a heartbeat... Like it is transferring life from... But... No. Guards! Stun him!"
"Too late...," Buddy says as an electrostatic burst blasts out of him. The two technicians standing closest to him fly backwards into outdated but sensitive equipment. The metal binds holding him in place rattle for a fraction of a second, and then Buddy jerks his arms upwards, completely free. "Electric eel and snake's flexibility. You're not about to hold me that waaa-ugh!"
The time it takes for him to slip his hands from his shackles gives the 4 well-trained soldiers a chance to level their tranquilizer guns at him. Pneumatic cracks reverberate in the laboratory and seven darts appear on his body: several in his chest, one in the neck, and another couple in his thighs. Buddy tumbles forward to the floor, a puddle of saliva dribbling out of his mouth. Down but not out, he kicks his immune system into that of an alligator's to try and purge the toxins.
Groaning against the massive quantity of poison kicking the crap out of his internal defenses, he trembles onto his hands and knees.
"Again!" the head shouts at the soldiers.
"Give it a minute," one of the soldiers says. "Each dart should stun a leopard. He's been hit with seven."
Buddy's eyes are barely working. He manages to identify the door and with a magnificent collection of will, struggles to his feet. He is wobbly, like a drunk who should have stopped a good half bottle of gin earlier. He manages several steps before collapsing over a table and flopping to the floor with a resounding crack as his head strikes the reinforced linoleum of the floor. A small puddle of blood soon pools under his head.
"Jesus!" one of the junior technicians says.
With his three comrades covering him, one of the soldiers kneels down and checks for a pulse. "He's alive."
"Well. We tried it. That man is a nuisance," the head says to nobody and everybody.
"That's another failure to add to the list," says the young football-loving technician.
"And lucky you," the head technician says to him. "You get to give the general our report."
~
The morning rains have faded into a perfectly crisp, clear day utterly devoid of humidity. General Maksai spent the morning meeting with his commanders as they planned their upcoming campaign, and with that business concluded, has retreated to the pool, where he has found two of his guests soaking in the sun. The down-furred Cheetah is lounging on one of the reclining pool chairs, with her back to the sky and her feet stretched out behind her. He can't help but notice how low the top of her bikini bottoms are, no doubt to accommodate her long spotted tail. It is an irritating distraction, one that fills him with mixed feelings of interest and disgust.
Hyena, on the other hand, just fills him with total disgust. With her coarse-looking hair and grotesque mouth that can barely form words, everything about her shouts "mongrel." He is annoyed to find her swimming in his pool, no doubt clogging the pool's filters with her sheddings. This is not how he was planning on enjoying his swim. Instead, he makes his way to the reed-roofed cabana and orders his bartender mix up a drink for him. He has reached his third of the day, and has just ordered a meal of sausages and fresh fruit when one of his technicians is escorted into his private grounds by Tabu, who – as always – is decked out in some kind of uniform. Today, her color is green, a detail that he notices is splayed out on the reflective surface of the silver case she carries.
"What is your name?" General Maksai asks the technician who has just given him his report on the recent attempts to awaken the totems.
"Chine Ugwe," the technician says. He is a young man, about his daughter's age. Not overly handsome, but with a stoutness of his body and a good moustache on his lip.
"You are not from around here, are you?" Maksai observes.
"N-no, general. I was recruited from Nigeria."
"Sadly, that means that you won't be buried in your homeland. Tabu. Express my displeasure."
Tabu slips her pistol from its holster. Two shots ring out and the technician falls to the grass, dead. One of the greatest benefits from having a daughter who is totally devoted to the military is her readiness to follow his every order. He can relax because she never does. It is an arrangement that he has found to work quite well in the nearly fifteen years since he put her into his military program.
"Damned Animal Man," Maksai says, flinging an olive pit into the pool.
"What is it that you're trying to do?" Cheetah asks, lazily. Though her recliner is quite close, only about thirty feet away, she did not blink or flinch when Tabu killed the technician. Hyena, on the other hand, has stopped her laps, and is staring at him.
"The totems that we have are proving to be a challenge to work," Maksai admits to the cat woman.
"Yes, they are stubborn like that," she says. On her chest as she is, she does not move nor addresses the totem she wears on a thin silver chain about her own neck. "What are you trying to do, anyway?"
"I was rejected by the Flame totem in my youth," Maksai admits. "I was hoping that I could use technology to compel them to work for me."
Cheetah's laugh is rich and deep, and full of scorn. "Oh, general, that is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Technology to motivate magic? Oh, that is as rich as alchemy."
"Do not mock me!" Maksai snaps, hurling his glass at the cat, which she snatches out of the air. Cheetah rotates on her bench and sits up. Again, to mixed emotion, Maksai is both pleased and disappointed that she has not fallen into the common female trend of sunbathing topless. Her black bikini top covers what should be covered. She nearly growls her response, though her tone is soft as a kitten's threat. "I would not recommend making this kitty angry, general. I assume that you are just frustrated by the totems' stubborn nature, and this one time, I will let it slide, but do not test me again."
"I am a general! I will do and say what I want. You had best remember that you are here only by my will."
"Then you clearly don't want to hear what I was planning on telling you about them!" Cheetah snaps.
Following his escorting of Buddy Baker to the underground lab, Brutale has changed into the more relaxing clothing of swim trunks and a tee-shirt and robe, and has joined the ladies and Maksai out at the pool. He arrived just in time to witness the hapless technician shot dead and carted away by his military escort. As he is on the same side of the pool as Hyena, he leans down toward the were-woman and whispers, "Five will get you ten that she gets the general to back down."
"You're on. That man is every bit the fool that my father is: all for pride," Hyena says.
"Well?" Maksai demands without a trace of patience. "What is this great secret of yours?"
"Why do you think I am here?" Cheetah asks him.
"To enjoy my pool. To tease me and my men with your cattiness and lack of shame. To eat my food."
"General, you sell yourself too proudly," Cheetah says with an upturned nose.
Maksai rises from his cabana-side stool, his nostrils flaring at the insult. "How dare you!" he rages. Tabu has not moved from where she was standing following her dispensation of punishment on the Nigerian technician.
"That was not an insult," Cheetah says dismissively, completely uncowed by the general's wrath. "I am merely stating that if I wanted those things, I could go anywhere across this whole wide world to do so. I am here, good man, because I believe in you. I believe that your dreams of acquiring the five totems to recreate the bounty of this land is a good one, and I am here to help you make your manipulations of such things a reality."
"You say this after admitting that you cannot get your own totem working for you."
"I did not say that I couldn't get it working. I said that they are frustrating things. You do recall that they only work for those who are pure of heart. And as you so charmingly just reminded me: I'm hardly pure of heart. But I am an archaeologist, and I have my doctorate – several doctorates, actually, but I shan't bore you about them – from studying just such artifacts. According to everything that I have read about these totems, they can only be activated or destroyed by magic. Nothing else. They have this kind of mystical force that protects the totems from any harm and only a very few people are able to link with the totem's magic."
"Very few people?" Maksai asks, falling for the distraction that Cheetah has dangled before him. His nostrils are still flaring, but his line of questioning clearly displays his distraction from the rage he was just exhibiting.
"Very very few. But there are those who can. Mages who can breach the dimensions have been known to do so. Merlin, of Arthurian legend, was said to have defeated one of his enemies by severing his connection to the mountain spirits that fed his power. In my copious research, I was able to learn not only who this enemy was, but where he got his power. It was a magical amulet that looked a lot like a certain trinket that you no doubt have in Tabu's silver case there." Cheetah nods at the gleaming box with a lead handle and roulette combination lock.
"Then, there is Circe, of Homer's Odyssey, who seduced a sailor and took his Zephyr's sack. Of course, it was not really bagged winds. That was a fabrication of a writer who had no actual idea. When I first attacked that mystery, I also was ignorant of what was in the sack, but over time, I was able to figure it out, and that led to quite the experience for myself, and for Mr. Barrera... I hired him to help me learn certain facts from certain kinds of unwilling individuals. The point is that over the eons, there have been those whose magic is capable of severing the connection between totem and Keepers."
"Magic," Maksai repeats, unclenching his fists. He reaches up and scratches his chin. "As we have no magicians immediately available to us, I confess to have not considered this avenue. I figured that where mysticism would fail, technology wouldn't."
Cheetah scoffs. "Technology is no strength without the brains and knowledge to back it up. Technicians will look for logic where they need expansion of possibility. Would a mere technician have the breadth of mind to recognize an item from Homer's tale as being a mystical item directly related to these baubles? I doubt it." Cheetah then raises her own glass towards her host. "And that is why I am here. I am the scholar who might possess the keys to your success."
~
"Vice Chamberlain Ukumu, thank you for speaking to me. My name is Ella McCabe. I am calling for any information you can give me regarding General Maksai of the Free Country of Zambesi. He recently financed an attack on my sister and her friends, and has kidnapped an American citizen."
Ella has been on the phone for hours, looking into whatever leads she can find concerning General Maksai. Since coming in to work at Musyimi & Njenga Advocates and taken her seat in the large open room where the other interns and lower-ranking lawyers all have desks, she has been trying to keep out of sight while she digs. Upon learning that she might get a straight answer from the firm's government liaison, she thought she would give it a shot.
"Young lady," Vice Chamberlain Ukumu begins with the kind of handling drawl that Ella has heard from countless politicians wanting to work their way out of commitment, "the rebel Mustafa Maksai, the so-called 'General of the Free Country of Zambesi' is a known terrorist and hoodlum who has been a thorn in the side of the good people of Zambesi for the better part of two decades. While proof of his involvement in a number of these situations is circumstantial at best, there have been enough complaints against him for us to take this matter seriously. If you would like to come by our office, we could provide you with the necessary paperwork so that you might file an injunction against him. If that is inconvenient, please provide us with either your mailing address or your email address. Then, once we have processed it, you will be given a response worthy of the extent of the allegations."
"I haven't the time for that. Maksai is planning a coup."
"A coup! My word! This is indeed serious. Please come by the office, and provide the proof that you have of Maksai's planned or proposed coup. If that is inconvenient, please provide us with either your mailing address or your email-"
Ella hangs up with a swear. "Talking to a machine would be easier than that." She leans back at her desk at the Musyimi & Njenga Advocates and stretches. While her superiors at the firm have been too busy with their own work, and since she had nothing overly pressing to do, she decided to see what she could dredge up about Maksai. About all she was able to find was that following his dishonorable discharge from the Zambesi militia, he disappeared for a while before arriving back into Zambawana with a small army. For the most part, he has kept his nose out of the public, but he has been active enough to come to the attention of certain circles and promptly – purposefully – forget his name. The only real lead she was able to find on him was data regarding international deals that have profited the current regime in Zambesi. Because of these deals, the police, the military, and politicians have all turned a blind eye to his capers so long as he keeps them minimal in scope, destruction, and so long as he pays a certain percentage to the government.
It is a kind of silent corruption that has helped the country to pave its roads and provide electricity to any village who needs or asks for it. In return, it is also the kind of corruption that has thrust so many other countries in Africa into civil wars.
Ella flattens out her bright red and blue skirt and drags a brush through her shoulder-length hair. The humidity is pulling at it, threatening to spoil it into a curly mess. Such always happens when a rainstorm is almost upon them. With another sigh, she returns to her research on Maksai.
"Ella, you have visitors," Nai says. The round woman points to the hallway, where fans are attempting to fight back the afternoon heat.
Seated in a waiting area decorated with a number of long-leafed plants, are her sister, Mari, and Lashawn Baez. Lashawn is in a light blue tee-shirt under a light green open-fronted button-down light jacket tucked into the belt of her grey shorts. Mari's outfit is a dark grey vest shirt with red surrounding the zipper in the front and at the collar. She is wearing light form-fitting Capri pants. Surprised to see the two here, Ella greets them with a smile.
"We need your help," Mari says, appreciating the look of civilization on her sister. The light cream-colored button-down shirt matches the bright orange of her business skirt well. "Is there someplace private we can talk?"
"This is most unexpected," Ella says, recognizing the urgency in her sister's voice. "Come. There is a conference room just down this way."
She leads her sister and the sweating American to the conference room and switches on the overhead air conditioning unit. Lashawn smiles at the sight and at the first blast of cold air that projects from it.
"What is going on that you would come here like this?"
"It has to do with Marionette. Mali Turner."
"That is the white girl, yes?"
Mari tells her sister: "She suffers from an illness called Multiple Personality Disorder. But this is a very rare case, one that was inflicted upon her by a madman. The secondary personality seems to be always there, maybe just out of sight, but then, when least expected, it strikes. Neither Lashawn or I have seen just how bad she can get with the other personality, Alice, in charge, but Marionette is clearly distraught by the thought of it being a constant presence in her life."
"What can I do for her? I'm not a doctor. I have not even passed my bar yet."
"There is a type of drug that can help her to repress the secondary personality, but it is extremely rare in the West. I haven't lived here in years, and was hoping maybe you'd know of something."
"What is the name of the drug?"
"Kanium."
Ella thinks for a moment and nods. "I might. Maybe. There is a criminal that the police brought in recently for drug trafficking. I do not know if he has the connections you seek, it could be worth a look. I shall write down his address, but I cannot visit him. If he thinks I am there in a capacity related to his drug charge, it would not look good for my firm."
"I understand," Mari says.
As Ella gets the address, she discusses what she learned about Maksai from the totally unhelpful Vice Chamberlain Ukumu, who is so entrenched in government bureaucracy that his paperwork of avoidance is a maze to navigate.
"That is regrettable. And it also makes our assault on him potentially more dangerous."
"How so?" Lashawn asks. For her sake the sisters have been discussing Maksai in English. It has been a challenge for Ella, but whatever she could not figure out, Mari translated for her.
"The government is not looking at Maksai's doings. They do not see the bad crimes that Maksai doing. More badder, they do not care that he does bad crimes. They only stop him when he does very bad crime. And sometimes, when he does business and the police arrive to the place, the police go away and let him continue his business."
"It sounds as if he is making the government a lot of money behind its back," Mari says.
"Yes. That is why it is difficult to attacking Maksai directly." Ella sighs.
"Unfortunately, we'll have to if we're going to get to the bottom of this. Is there anyone in the government that might support us in our endeavor?"
"Not that I am finding. But I'll keep looking."
"Please do, and thanks for this. We'll let you know how it goes, but we'll probably head straight back to Tantunu as soon as we've checked it out."
"Good luck!"
~
The underbelly of Zambawana is like the underbelly of any city: hot, humid, dangerous, and a hodgepodge of sickness, depravity and poverty. It is a wretched place, but if Mari and Lashawn have anything to say to each other about it, they keep it to themselves. Neither wants to call any more attention to themselves than is absolutely necessary. As they were departing Ella's firm to come here, Ella suggested leaving the Jeep at the firm and going on foot, as people in the part of town that they are heading have a certain reputation, one that implies vandalism and guarantees theft.
As they teleport from rooftop to rooftop, they actually do see just such an act in process; a group of seven or eight young thugs in worn clothing strip a Toyota and make off with whatever they can get their hands on.
They do not stop, as one day's worth of Kanium pills has put a pretty tight deadline on their ability to get ahold of her drugs, and the day is fast wearing on.
When they touch down near the location Ella gave them, they pause a moment for Lashawn to catch her breath. The miles of teleporting has winded her, as she has not been in such rigorous practice at the usage of her powers.
Ready at last, the two make their way out of the alley and find their destination is a dive bar.
"Abandoned Hope," Mari says, translating the bar's sign for her teammate. Outside the building, there are a series of plastic stools set out beside a couple wobbly wooden tables under a dying neon sign which looks faded in the waning afternoon sun. Inside, it is even worse. Several tables of men with hunched shoulders are ignoring the football game blasting out on a blocky TV screen whose vertical hold gives the players a slowly revolving appearance. Several call girls in skirts and frilled strapless tops are sitting around, looking bored with the males and the entertainments. A bartender is quietly in talks with one of his patrons. The collection of alcohol is on display behind him, and a bouncer is playing a game of solitaire at a small table by the door. Of the four small overhead fans, three don't even work, and the place is pulsing with unspoken tension.
"This place stinks of piss," Lashawn says, blinking to get her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and second-hand smoke of the bar. Around the pair, a small gathering of men have noticed the ladies entering the establishment.
"Stay sharp and be ready for a quick exit," Mari says under her breath. As the only one who speaks the local language, she knows she has to present herself as a strong individual, one who is not about to take any nonsense. In a place that is looking to make whatever money it can find, a customer is a customer. The trick is to make it to the bar to provide that cash to the establishment, where it belongs.
Mari and Lashawn make it about five steps before a broad-shouldered lecher impedes their progress. His face is hard and his rotting teeth stink. He smirks down at them and both ladies can feel his eyes dancing up and down their bodies. It is not unexpected.
"What are you doing here, kitten?"
"I'm here to spend some money. I see some Captain Morgan up there. Mmm. My favorite. There is some ice here, isn't there?"
"We're all here to spend money, sweetheart. The question is how much?"
"Just enough for a drink and maybe a word with your bartender."
"That wasn't the question. It was a question for how much you and your friend want for some company."
Vixen doesn't laugh at him. She has seen several handguns just out of hand. Offending a man by laughing at him could rally the others into a show of force. Instead, she simply accepts his mistake, and does nothing to prove him wrong. She really isn't here to fight, after all. Especially considering that this blockhead could be the man her sister sent her to find.
"Well, how about this? My friend and I have just earned ourselves a drink. But after we refresh ourselves with our drink, we'll come talk to you."
"Since all I smell is sunshine and flowers on you two, how about you skip that drink and we skip on out of here."
"I rather liked my idea better. So let me say no. We're here to spend money, not be turned into whores for your pleasure. So if you'll excuse us," Mari pushes her way past the man and finds his hand wrapped around her arm.
"Little kitten, I think you don't understand me. See, I have a thirst. Deep. And I think only you two can quench it."
The three of them have drawn all eyes, some are far less civil than others. One thing that the two ladies have going for them is that while everyone is interested in the proceedings, all are too beaten down by the heat to commit to any movement. At least not so far.
"You aren't Yujiwe M'Sallah, are you?" Mari asks the man.
"Why? What do you want with him?"
"We have words for him," Mari says sweetly. Then, before he can even register she is moving, she has pried his fingers from her arm and bends his entire hand back at the wrist. The big man drops to his knees as Mari looks over at the other men staring at her. She then says is a very loud, clear voice. "We are here to spend money, not earn it. First, we will buy a drink, and then we will talk to Yujiwe M'Sallah! I am letting this pig off easy. But if you want worse than him, I welcome you to bother us – no, to even look at us. Go back to your drinks and ignore us. I, for one, think it's too damn hot for pride. So why not just look away now."
As Mari runs her eyes back around the room, she finds that everyone has found something a little more important to concentrate on. Satisfied, she releases the man, who is moaning in pain.
"It will heal. All you need is a little ice for it. Stay here. I will see if I can find some for you." She looks at the bar. "I may be a while."
The bartender serves up their Captain Morgan shots with a splash of soda water on ice, and the two ladies take a seat at one of the empty tables in the back, where they can watch everyone in the bar.
"What now?" Lashawn asks. She couldn't understand Mari's words but is very impressed with the message that she was able to communicate to the men in this oppressive dive.
"We drink."
Lashawn frowns. It seems such an odd thing to be doing, considering they need to find Yujiwe M'Sallah, but Mari says nothing else, and the two drink their beverages in silence. Lashawn entertains herself as she drinks by watching the men around her. The brute that took a stand for his hormones has retreated into a far corner where he sulks and gives the pair dirty looks. Every once in a while snippets of his attitude are projected over to them, but Mari ignores him. There are some comings and goings of patrons, but not many. The two ladies nurse their drinks, dragging out their stay. In a way, Lashawn is happy for that because in this heat, and with the intensity of the alcohol hitting her blood, she realizes that she has not been drinking nearly enough water since arriving in Zambesi. If she took her drink any quicker, she would be suffering a buzz, which would be a horrible thing for the purpose of their visit into this stinking cesspool of a bar.
"I think we've been here long enough," Mari tells Lashawn, after over half an hour of lingering over their single drinks.
At Mari's signal, the bartender comes over with their bill. Mari takes a look at the paper slip and pulls out her wallet. As the bartender leaves with his drink money, Mari suggests they head to the bathroom.
"I don't really have to go," Lashawn says.
"Doesn't matter," Mari says, taking her hand.
Unsure as to what is happening, Lashawn lets her partner take her into the back, where a small hallway projects back into a dusty alleyway. Mari then takes her around the corner of the next building, past what looks like a garbage receptacle that a mat-furred street dog has made its home. Then, there is a grey door with paint flaking off of it. Mari knocks three times in fast succession. The door opens and a man in his mid-twenties is there. His hair is somewhat wild and he wears a beard but no moustache.
"Yujiwe M'Sallah?"
"Come in."
M'Sallah steps back and the two ladies enter. They are in a dusky room with a bare, well-swept concrete floor, little decoration and a support beam in the middle of it. A rickety wooden table juts out away from the beam and there are several cheap plastic stools around it. Off to one side of the beam there is a curtained-off area. The place has a powerful scent of dust and faded soap.
Lashawn is completely surprised by this. "What is going on?"
"The receipt had a note from him. It said to come here," Mari answers in English before slipping back into her native tongue to communicate with the man. "My name is Mari McCabe. You and I have a mutual friend, but that friend cannot get involved. Nonetheless, I was recommended to you because I hear you are a businessman"
"I will stop you there," M'Sallah says, taking a seat on one of the pink plastic stools before the rickety wooden table. "What good is a businessman who does not know what he is getting himself into?"
Mari opens her purse and extracts a single 100 dollar bank note. "American." She slides it over to him. He licks his lips but does not touch the bill. "This is an expression of my trust in your experience as a businessman."
"I see you come prepared," he says, meeting her eyes again.
"A mutual exchange can be of great value to those in need. We have a friend who is in great need, and you would be doing us a great favor by helping us to meet her great need."
"What kind are you talking about?" As he talks, his eyes do not move away from Mari, nor do they even take Lashawn into account. "I ask simply because there are commodities that are easy to find, then there are those that might be found, and there are those that cannot be found unless the price is right, and then there are those that supply just never can stock."
"Kanium."
M'Sallah frowns. "I wish you had said cocaine or heroin."
"You do know of it, don't you?"
"I have connections. I, myself, am innocent, of course, but I have connections. For normal drugs. You are asking for something that has never entered into this country. And no, that isn't an exaggeration. If they have come to this country to be sold, I would have learned through my associates. You are asking for a Ferrari."
"One can find Ferraris here," Mari counters.
"But those are imported at nearly 500 times the market value in Europe." He spreads the fingers of his left hand for emphasis. "If you really want Kanium, it is possible to get it. Maybe. But that will take time, and a down payment of at least twenty more of your friend, there." He nods at the hundred dollar bill. "And that would just be to show my connections that there is a serious buyer out there."
"We are very serious."
"Then we would be talking about finding a supplier. Negotiating a rate of exchange. Arranging shipment. Retrieving the shipment. Paying bribes."
"What kinds of numbers are we talking about?"
"Two thousand up front. Eight hundred per ounce. And a return time of three months at best."
"Three months?" Mari asks, hoping that her surprise and disappointment doesn't show.
M'Sallah shrugs. "It's a seller's market. Kanium doesn't grow on trees. It's a hassle to harvest, the processing is temperamental, and it has a limited shelf life. Only by producing it in small quantities for maximum return is it even remotely worthwhile. That's why nobody has it."
"I see," Mari says, looking at Lashawn with disappointment. "We don't have that long to wait. Thank you for your time."
"I am sorry that this was not more worth more. As a token of my apologies, you can have your bill back. I did not touch it, so it is not mine yet."
"Keep it," Mari says. "It was a sign of my trust in you, and though you cannot provide us with what we're looking for, you have not proven unworthy of our trust. And by our letting you keep it, it is a sign that you can trust our discretion."
At Mari's signal, Lashawn rises. The two thank Yujiwe M'Sallah and step outside. A light evening drizzle has begun and it matches the sadness in Mari's heart.
"No luck?" Lashawn asks.
"No."
"So what now?"
"Now we return to Tantunu."
"And then what? What do we do about Turner's disorder?"
Mari looks up into the full face of the twilight rain. "I do not know."