Marley Z and the Bloodstained Violin by Jim Fusilli

Author:Jim Fusilli
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2010-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

chapter 9

Teddy was waiting outside the Sissokos’ apartment building, happy in his ’90s Orlando Magic jersey, black T-shirt and baggy sky-blue shorts.

“Ted . . . ,” Marley complained.

“My afternoon was free,” he shrugged. The jersey and the shorts were way too long: Both covered his dimply knees.

Marley walked on. “And you just happened to be on the opposite side of the park from your home . . . Standing outside Bassekou’s house.”

“In fact, yes.” He stopped. When Marley turned, he said, “Not really. No. I was thinking you would go to see Mahjoob next”—Teddy pointed sort of north, sort of west toward the Met—“and that you would like some company.”

She walked slowly until Teddy skittered next to her, passing her clanking book bag.

“No Mahjoob?”

“Bassekou doesn’t want stolen American instruments,” she explained. “He’s starting a collection to impress his dad.”

“Why would his dad be interest—”

“Because Bassekou doesn’t want to be an ambassador or in the Foreign Service or whatever,” she said, frustration in her voice. “He wants to be a musician. He’s very serious. He knows African music, American music, blues, and Bach, Tchaikovsky. . . .”

Teddy frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, his words a tender apology.

“Oh, Teddy, I’m not upset with you.” Now Marley stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. New Yorkers hurrying their way home from work parted to pass around them, never missing a stride.

“I’m ashamed of myself,” she said. “I really suspected him and I had no reason to.”

They waited for a wheezing bus to pass and, when the light changed, they crossed Madison Avenue, watching for turning taxis.

“Did you suspect him?” Marley asked.

Though he wanted to comfort her, he said, “No. I never did.”

“Never?”

“Mahjoob, yes. But not Bassekou. Mahjoob steals.”

Marley’s father had said pretty much the same thing. “I warned Bassekou,” Marley said, recalling how she told him she saw them together in the museum.

“Still,” Teddy said, “Mahjoob may try to sell Bassekou instruments that were stolen.”

“If he does, Bassekou will tell me,” she said sharply, “and I’ll tell Sgt. Sampson.”

Teddy was smiling.

“What?” she asked.

“You are exasperated. It’s very funny.”

Marley pretended to pout. She rustled her big mop of black hair. “Yeah. Basically, I know nothing.”

“Except Tabakovic still uses his old instrument, and Bassekou isn’t interested in stolen goods,” Teddy said agreeably.

“And Marisol was an unwitting agent in the theft of the Habishaw violin. Which the police still don’t have.”

They turned west on sunny 59th Street. Up ahead on Fifth Avenue, crowds gathered around the beautiful fountain Joseph Pulitzer had contributed to the city a century ago. As usual, a gazillion pigeons flitted about, sparkly, gray and bold.

A new idea took root in Marley’s head. “Someone made her do it . . . ,” she said thoughtfully.

“Well, isn’t that how somebody becomes an unwitting agent?”

“And who do we know who says he has mystical powers?” Marley asked. “The kind that might trick people.”

Teddy thought for a moment. “Mahjoob.”

Marley nodded. “Mahjoob.”

This time they both stopped and stared at each other.

They entered in a rush, bolting past the mirror, raincoats and slickers and Skeeter’s folded-up stroller.

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