Chapter 6
The room they'd put us in wasn't really an office. No desk, no chairs except the ones we were on. Bare walls, one high window that showed the dark, and a single bulb that made everything look yellow. I'd been sitting against the wall for what felt like hours. My legs had gone numb.
Mr. Belgasham stood by the door. He hadn't moved much. He still had that white napkin folded in his hand, and the stain on his right trouser leg had dried to a darker brown. The man in the leather jacket was across from me, on a stool they'd brought in. He kept shifting his weight. Sweat ran down the side of his face even though the room was cold.
Mr. Belgasham looked at him and said, "Empty them."
The man swallowed. "I already did. I showed you. Phone, wallet —"
"Complete," Mr. Belgasham said. He didn't raise his voice. "Every pocket. Inside jacket. Chest."
The man’s hand went to his chest automatically. Right over his heart, where his jacket zipped. He pressed it flat like he could hold something in through the leather.
"I told you, it's nothing," he said. His voice was fast now. "It's personal."
Mr. Belgasham waited a beat. I watched his breathing. Slow. He glanced at me once, then back at the man.
"Then you won't mind me seeing it," he said.
The second scene stretched longer. Mr. Belgasham didn't grab him. He just nodded toward the corner where a big man in a dark sweater had been standing quiet the whole time. The big man stepped forward. He didn't say anything. He just held out his hand, palm up.
The man in the leather jacket stared at that hand. His own hand was still clamped to his chest. His forehead was wet. I could see his chest rising fast under the jacket.
"Boss, come on," he said. "You know me. This is — this is medication. For my stomach."
Mr. Belgasham said, "Show us."
Another second of silence. Then the man’s fingers twitched. Slowly, he unzipped the top of his jacket, just a few inches. He reached inside, into the inner pocket over his left chest. His hand shook so hard I could see it from across the room.
He pulled out two things and set them on his knee because he didn't want to hand them over. One was a tiny glass vial, no bigger than my thumb, with a black cap. There was a white powdery residue caked around the bottom inside. The other was a small folded paper packet, creased tight, like the kind you'd fold to hold something you didn't want to spill.
He kept his palm around them for a second too long.
The big man took them gently and set them on the small white table they'd brought in. Not the cafe table. Just a plain folding one. Under the bulb they looked very clear.
That was when Mr. Belgasham looked at me.
My throat went dry. I hadn't spoken since they'd brought us inside. I remembered the cafe. The overcast light. The white table with the gold rim. I'd been standing near the edge, trying to see if anyone would give me a coin. I saw the man in the leather jacket lean over Mr. Belgasham's coffee while Mr. Belgasham was looking toward the street. He had something small and dark in his fingers. He tipped it. Just a quick shake over the cup. Then he slipped his hand back to his chest, into that same pocket.
I stared at the vial on the table. Same size. Same cap. The way the powder stuck to the glass.
"That's it," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "That's what he had. Over the coffee."
The man snapped his head toward me. "You're lying. You didn't see anything. You're a street kid, you weren't even —"
"Quiet," Mr. Belgasham said.
The man pressed his lips together. His eyes darted between the vial and Mr. Belgasham's face.
Mr. Belgasham stepped closer to the table. He didn't pick up the vial with his fingers. He pulled the white napkin from his hand and used it as a barrier, nudging the vial just enough to turn it. The white residue shifted inside. He looked at it for a long time.
Then he took his phone out with his other hand. He took three photos, flash off, close up. The vial. The paper packet. Both together with his shoe in the frame for scale. He typed something with his thumbs.
"Second item to add to test," he said, almost to himself. He slipped the phone back into his suit pocket. Then, still using the napkin, he picked up the vial and the packet together and dropped them into his inner suit pocket, the one over his heart. The opposite side from where the man had kept them.
"That's antacid," the man said quickly. "I swear. I get ulcers. It's just powder I mix with water. The paper is — it's the same thing, extra dose."
I looked at the stain on Mr. Belgasham's trousers. Dark brown, dried now. Same coffee I'd knocked over. I didn't touch anything. I kept my hands on my knees.
Mr. Belgasham buttoned his jacket over the pocket where the vial was. He looked at the man on the stool, then at me, then at the door.
"It wasn't in your coffee," I said, not loud. "It was in his. Before I knocked it."
The man started to say something else, but Mr. Belgasham held up one hand. He looked down at the table once more where the two spots where the vial and packet had sat were still faintly visible under the light.
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"Now I hold it," he said. "Lab gets the photos tonight."
The big man moved the stool back. The man in the leather jacket didn't move. His hands were empty now. He kept rubbing his chest where the pocket had been, like the weight was still there.
