The Oracle (Fargo Adventures 11)

The girls filed out of the courtyard and across the graveled drive toward the office, Remi, still held by the guard, bringing up the rear. Makao walked in first, taking a look around on his own, then exiting. “Leave them inside.”

“What about our hands?” Remi asked. “At least tie them in front.”

“I’m sure you’ll make do.” He looked at the guard. “No one in or out. You do not leave this doorway.”

“Understood.”

The moment he walked out, leaving Remi and the girls alone, she smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The strong do not need clubs.

– SENEGALESE PROVERB –

The two boys led Sam through a maze of streets and pointed down a narrow alley. “It’s a secret where Kalu lives,” one of the boys said. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Promise,” Sam said, paying them. They ran off and he continued past the dilapidated buildings, most with rusty corrugated tin roofs. Not much of a secret, he thought, reading the sign over the door, its faded red paint peeling and flaking from the warped wood.

KALU & SONS

FURNITURE REPAIR

To the right was a broken window, the shattered glass glittering on the ground just below it. Checking the alley in both directions and seeing no one, Sam stepped up to the door, pounding on the frame.

No answer.

He pounded again, then waited. Reaching down, he turned the knob. It was unlocked and he stepped to the side and pushed it open, looking into a workroom piled high with broken chairs. Judging by the thick dust and cobwebs, he doubted anyone had attempted to repair anything there in years. “Kalu,” he shouted.

A boy, maybe a year or two younger than Nasha, poked his head out of a room near the end of a dim hall and ducked back when he saw Sam. A moment later, a man stepped out of a different room. He bore a striking resemblance to the Kalu brothers. He closed the distance between them, crossing his muscular arms as he towered over Sam. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice deep.

“Sam Fargo. I’m here for information.”

“If you were smart, Sam Fargo, you’d leave. I don’t invite strangers into my home.” Kambili seemed to be sizing him up. Apparently, Sam didn’t appear to be much of a threat because the guy didn’t draw the gun that was clearly in his waistband. His gaze flicked out the door, then back. “Who’s with you?”

“I came alone.”

“A shame.” He picked up the leg of a broken chair.

“Here, now,” Sam said, putting his hands out. “Just trying to have a civil conversation.”

Kambili leered. “I’m not the civil type.” He swung.

Sam jumped to one side as the club whistled past.

“Look,” Sam said, grabbing a broken chairback. “All I want is a little information—”

Kambili swung again. Sam lifted the back. The club bounced off the top and flew from Kambili’s grasp, clattering against the wall.

Eyes narrowing in anger, he reached for his gun.

Sam charged, ramming the broken chair into Kambili’s gut.

He doubled over, grabbing at the chair. Sam drove it up, smashing his jaw. As Kambili staggered back, Sam grabbed the man’s gun, then shoved him into an old desk chair on casters. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I want information.”

Kambili glared at him. “I’ll kill you.”

“In the meantime,” Sam said, tossing the chair back onto the pile of broken furniture and pointing Kambili’s gun at him, “I need you to answer a few questions about a boy who used to work for you.”