Free Juba Good by Vicki Delany Page B

of the job.
    Which wasn’t a lie.
    Notos was a popular spot. Aid workers and foreign government staffers hung out there. They might have seen something. The rest of the road was made up of tin shacks and cardboard houses. Plus a few of the traditional mud and grass huts called tukuls. No one there would help the police.
    The fire in the pizza oven blazed. Spices filled the air. The bar hopped with good jazz.
    The restaurant was full. I nodded to a couple of Canadian embassy staff. We went to the bar. I ordered two orange Fantas. Deng tried not to look too terribly disappointed.
    The bartender was named Shirley. A knockout in a neat white shirt and black pants, with short-cropped black hair. She passed the bottles over with a soft smile. The smile was directed not at me but at Deng. He didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œBusy tonight,” I said.
    â€œUsual.”
    â€œSome trouble out on the street earlier. A couple of hours ago. Maybe around nine. Did you hear anything, Shirley?”
    She glanced at Deng from under her eyelashes.
    He said, “Did you?”
    â€œCan’t hear anything over the noise in here.”
    â€œDid anyone go out for a break, maybe? Smoke. Get some air?”
    A silent shake of her head. She slid down to the end of the bar to take an order.
    That’s the problem with policing here. You don’t know what experiences people have had. In Canada, we get suspicious if someone avoids police questions. Most people want to be helpful. Whether they have anything to be helpful about or not. But here, with the trauma some of these people have experienced?
    Maybe they’re as guilty as sin.
    Maybe they don’t much care.
    Maybe they’ve seen men in uniform slaughter whole families.
    You just don’t know.
    I visited the tables. I asked the same questions I’d asked Shirley. Got nothing but shakes of the head and questions back.
    Only a shy young waitress named Marlene thought hard. I suspected Marlene liked me. I didn’t know if she really liked me or was just hoping for a visa to Canada. I made sure to always keep things light and no more than friendly. Tonight, she had nothing to say that would help us.
    Back to the bar. I leaned against the counter and sucked on my Fanta. The restaurant was emptying out. People called good night to their friends in the warm night air.
    A tall white woman, blond, pretty, came up to the bar. She dug in her purse. “I need more Internet time,” she said. “Can I buy three hours?” Her English was perfect, the Dutch accent strong. She gave me a smile as Shirley searched for the Internet vouchers. I hadn’t seen the Dutch woman when we came through the restaurant.
    â€œDo you live nearby?” I asked.
    â€œIn the townhouses, yes.” Four modern townhouses were next to the restaurant. They were surrounded by a concrete wall. They boasted a rare patch of scrappy lawn and trimmed bushes.
    â€œWere you outside earlier? Say around nine, ten?”
    â€œWhy do you ask?”
    â€œPolice business.”
    Deng refrained from rolling his eyes. He thought I was trying to pick her up.
    She laughed through a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “I had dinner with friends. Came home by taxi. Around nine, I think. What happened?”
    â€œThere was a killing. On the corner. Where the road bends.”
    She lifted her hand to her mouth. “A killing? Who? Someone I know?”
    â€œA local, probably.”
    The concern faded from her face. “That’s very sad.”
    â€œIt might have been around that time. Did you see anything unusual?”
    She hesitated.
    â€œWhat?” I asked, my tone sharper than I’d intended.
    Shirley passed her a slip of paper. “Twenty-five pounds.”
    The Dutch woman handed over an orange bill. She chewed her lip. “I heard something.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThe air-conditioning wasn’t working in the taxi. The windows were down. I heard