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My stomach is still whining as I pull up outside the Village Market. Thick in the air are the smells of turmeric, coriander and cumin, deep fried sambusas filled with ground beef, and I could easily eat a tray of Sabaayed slathered in honey.
Eve would be angry if I arrived home empty handed after a trip to Village Market. Although, in this time, the influx of Somalis is still young, many of them struggling to make ends meet (I suppose they still are in my time), and the gang activity is in its infant, dangerous and volatile stage.
And, in spite of our efforts, much of the violence is headquartered here.
The Village Market is a massive two-story warehouse that covers an entire city block. Inside, the place is an under-roof market, with dozens of merchants hawking clothing, jewelry, pots and pans, household goods, bedding, shoes, cell phones, electronics and in every corner, food. Not just cafes, but coolers filled with goat meat and basmati rice, curry and fresh ginger, plantains and frozen grouper.
At the far end of the building is a Muslim prayer room, one for the men, and another, smaller one for women. And located at the other end, the laundromat where Hassan Abdilhali has set up shop.
In my time, Abdilhali owns half the market, (probably running some sort of protection service for the other half), as well as over two-dozen laundromats throughout south Minneapolis.
He’s just a young thug now, however, and if Danny can take him down, he’ll save countless lives. I hum to Fleetwood Mac, who is reminding me to go my own way—and turn into an alleyway off E 22nd street, a straight shot to the back door of the Market.
In the long shadows of an oak tree, Danny sits in his unmarked Ford Taurus, and I have to give him props for not driving a Crown Vic. Still, could he be more obvious? I don’t know, but I get out, creep over to his vehicle, and tap on the passenger side.
He jerks his head toward me, a hint of fear on his face, but he recovers almost instantly. The look he shoots me could turn a man to dust, but I grin and motion for him to unlock.
His mouth pinches as I get in.
Because, you know, I’m going to save his stinkin’ life tonight. He will like me, just you wait.
“What are you doing here?”
An empty coffee cup sits in the holder between the console seats. The cup is seated inside another cup, so maybe he’s been here for a while. Might be a little overcaffeinated, if you ask me.
“Booker sent me.” Lie, I know. “Said you might need backup.” Oh, the Chief will kill me if he ever finds out. But he won’t.
Hopefully.
I’m not sure, suddenly, if my actions might cause Booker to repeal my chronothizing activities. What if he takes the watch away, in the future, as some kind of punishment? Or worse, never gives it to me in the first place? Would things revert to the beginning? Or would I be stuck in the worl
d as I know it—?
Can’t think about it, let it cloud my mind. I’m just going to stick to my plan.
“What?” Danny asks to my explanation. “How does Booker—”
“We’ve had our eye on Jamal and Ari,” I say, and I’m such a smooth liar after years undercover, it can scare me. “When you tagged them last night, and then sprung Jamal, Booker got wind of it and sent me.”
Danny stares at me a long moment, and I suddenly wonder if he can see right through me, all the way to my fifty-two-year-old, lying, bones.
“And he sent you?”
I raise a shoulder.
“Fine. Okay. Just. Don’t. Talk to me.” Danny settles back into his hundred-yard stare at the market building.
“So, what’s the plan? Do you have Jamal wired? Sent him in to talk to Abdilhali? Aren’t you worried Hassan is going to figure him out?”
Danny looks at me. “I guess now I am. What, are you psychic?”
Did I give away too much? I don’t think so, I mean… “It’s what I would do. Find an informant, get him close to the source, have the source give up some key information—like an upcoming drug shipment, right? And then…” I lift a shoulder.
Except, in the current version, something goes south and Danny ends up killing Abdilhali’s brother.
Not tonight. I’ll arrest the brother before Danny can end him. Let the courts handle the rest. “Ever had the sweet fry bread here?”
Danny glares at me, and frowns. “No.”
