Bingo's Run by James A. Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

months.
    After a while everyone left. Wolf shouted, “Meejit—wait!”
    When the hut was empty (even Dog was told, “Go”), Wolf bent his finger at me. “Come,” he said.
    I went and stood in front of him. I waited for a slap, but Wolf rubbed the top of my head. He spoke, each word slow and careful. “You tha witness, Meejit. Them fookin’ Manabí kill Boss Jonni. Ya tha witness tha’ Manabí kill Boss Jonni.”
    I nodded. “Ya, Wolf Sa. Manabí kill Boss Jonni.”
    Wolf went on, “Meejit. Right away, I’z need to keep ya safe—very safe.”
    I nodded.
    He said, “In case tha fookin’ Manabí come after ya.”
    There were bosses above Wolf, and even above Boss Jonni. I was Wolf’s witness that the Manabí—and not Wolf—had killed Boss Jonni. This witness had to live.
    I said, “Wolf Sa, where you want me to go?”
    Wolf said right away, “Meejit, you’z go tha orphanage on Haile Selassie. It called St. Michael’s. Tell tha priest Wolf sent ya. I call him on tha mobile. You tell him you tha witness. You tell ’im the Manabí did it.”
    I said, “Yes, Wolf Sa. Manabí did it.” I was quiet for a second. “I’z go in tha morning.”
    Wolf shouted, “Meejit, you’z fookin’ go right this minit—else I slit ya myself!” He slapped my face and I fell. I whimpered for good show. I knew he’d slap me. I knew it made him feel good.
    He went to the cutters’ table and gave me three bags of white. “Give tha pries’ these, ya.” He slid his hand in his pocket and gave me a roll of shillings. “This for ya’s,” Wolf said. “Rememba, you’z tha witness. Tha Manabí did tha kill.”
    That night I got paid more than any actor at the bus station.
    I ran from Wolf’s hut, out of Kibera. But once I was out on the main street, I went slow. Wolf had told me where to go, but I was not in a hurry. In the night, as I walked across Nairobi, I missed Deborah’s dark. It was the place I wanted to be, but work is work, money is money, and living is staying alive.

Chapter 11
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St. Michael’s Orphanage
    The dark wooden door at St. Michael’s Orphanage was large, with two rusted steel hoops for knockers. The streetlights were mostly out, but I could still make out the sign above the door, S T . M ICHAEL ’ S O RPHANAGE , and below it, W HERE HOPE DREAMS . There was no bell, so I slapped one of the iron hoops. No answer. I threw a rock at the first-floor window. The window smashed; throwing rocks at Krazi Hari had paid off.
    A window opened beside the one that had broken. The man who looked out was clearly a whitehead—life had been pulled out of him. He was a white man with a long yellow face and messed-up straw hair. Sure it was two in the morning, but a whitehead is a whitehead anytime. He had no clothes on his thin upper body. I thought he would look good nailed on a cross. “Boy,” he shouted through the open window, “stop throwing rocks.”
    I called up, “Wolf sent me. Where tha priest?”
    â€œI am the priest,” the man said. His voice was deep and slow. “I am Father Matthew.” He was English. I knew that from porn. He said, “I was expecting you. Wait there,” and the window shut.
    A minute went by. Father Matthew opened the wooden doors.The entrance hall was lit with electric. The priest was long and bent. His chest and arms were still naked. He wore shorts, as if he was about to play soccer. I went inside and he shut the door behind me.
    The priest put his long hands on my shoulders, looked down at me, and gripped tight. “Son, welcome,” he said. “I am Father Matthew, the priest of St. Michael’s.” I looked up at him in the entrance’s darkness; he was a shadow of a shadow. He continued speaking in a slow, deep voice. “I understand