“Grease.”
I took him at his word and did what he said.
From there, my driver took us across Five Cowrie Creek to the more upscale of the city’s major islands—Victoria—and to a private medical practice on the fifth floor of an office building. Very private.
The doctor saw me right away. He examined my face and then gave me one quick, and excruciating, adjustment. It was the strangest doctor visit I’ve ever had, hands down. There were no questions about my injury and no request for payment. I was in and out in less than ten minutes.
Back in the car, I asked Flaherty how long he’d been based in Lagos. He had obvious juice here, and plenty of it. He also knew enough not to answer my questions.
“Oshodi Market,” he said to the driver, then sat back again and lit another cigarette.
“You might as well chill,” he said to me. “This is gonna be a while, trust me. You know what they call Lagos?”
“The go-slow city.”
He turned down the corners of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of white smoke.
“You learn fast. Some things, anyway.”
Chapter 51
VISUALLY OSHODI MARKET was a lot like the rest of Lagos—crammed end to end with busy, hurrying people, either buying something or selling something, and possibly doing both.
Flaherty curled his way through the crowds and the stalls like a skinny white rat in its favorite maze.
I had to keep my eyes on him to stay with him, but the exotic food smells and the sounds of the market still came through loud and strong. I took it all in—and liked it very much.
There were grilled meats and peanutty things and sweet-spicy stews over open fires, all of it remi
nding me of how hungry I was. Accents and languages came and went like radio stations, or maybe jazz. Yoruban was the most common; I was starting to pick that one out from among the many others.
I also heard livestock braying from the back of trucks, babies crying in a line for vaccinations, and people continually haggling about prices pretty much everywhere we went in the market.
My pulse ran high the whole time, but in a good way. Faced with squalor or not, I was finally pumped to be here.
Africa! Unbelievable.
I didn’t think of it as my home, but the attraction was powerful anyway. Exotic and sensual and new. Once again I found myself thinking about poor Ellie. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. What had happened to her here? What had she found out?
Flaherty finally slowed at a rug stall. The young seller, negotiating with a man in traditional oatmeal-colored robes, barely glanced over as we walked through the shoulder-high stacks to the back of the stall.
Less than a minute later, he appeared like an apparition at our side.
“Mr. Flaherty,” he said and then nodded at me politely. “I have beer and mineral water in the cooler, if you like.” It felt as though he were welcoming us into his home rather than selling intel in the marketplace.
Flaherty held up a hand. “Just current events, Tokunbo. Today we’re interested in the one called the Tiger. The massive one.” I noticed that the name needed no more explanation than that.
“Anything in the last twenty-four hours gets you twenty American. Forty-eight gets you ten. Anything older than that gets you whatever you’d make selling rugs today.”
Tokunbo nodded serenely. He was like Flaherty’s polar opposite. “They say he’s gone to Sierra Leone. Last night, in fact. You just missed him—lucky for you.”
“Ground or air?”
“By ground.”
“Okay.” Flaherty turned to me. “We’re good here. Pay the man.”
Chapter 52