Children of the Street - [36]

“Is Tedamm capable of murder?” Dawson asked.

Patience’s big eyes were direct. “In the world of homelessness, poverty, and desperation, you fight for survival, and there are no polite limits to the fight.”

“I need to talk to Tedamm,” Dawson said.

Patience exchanged a quick glance with Genevieve. “You can join me when I go out in the field in a little while, Inspector. We can ask around for him.”

“Thank you. I would like to do that.” He sat forward slightly. “About two weeks ago, a dead young man was found in Korle Lagoon.”

“I remember the newspaper article,” Patience said. “He was a truck pusher.”

“Correct. His name was Musa Zakari. Is that familiar?”

“Not to me.”

She looked at her boss, who shook her head. “Nor me. But just to be sure, we should check with Socrate Tagoe, our webmaster and photographer. He might know.”

22

Dawson had imagined that Socrate would be thin and owlish. He was wrong. Standing around five-ten, Socrate probably weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. His office was too small for him, a laptop, a desktop, a printer-fax, piles of paper-stuffed folders, and boxes of CDs and DVDs.

“Socrate is our webmaster,” Genevieve said as he and Dawson shook hands, “but he’s also happy to get out there and photograph our street children, aren’t you, Socra?”

He tried to smile as his eyes moved away from hers, collided with Dawson’s for an instant, and swerved back. Dawson instinctively understood that the man really didn’t enjoy going out to photograph street children. He was doing it for Genevieve, but if he had his way, he would spend all day sitting in front of his computer. He was no Patience.

“Socrate,” Genevieve said, “have we ever had a boy here by the name of Musa Zakari?”

He rubbed his chin. “That name doesn’t sound familiar to me, but I can check my records.” His voice was nasal and pinched.

“Thank you,” Genevieve said. “You do that while I show Inspector Darko around.”

Genevieve’s and the other administrative offices were on the ground floor. There was one common office with space enough for four caseworkers, although SCOAR had only two at the moment.

“Budget cuts,” Genevieve explained. “Things are tight.”

“Everywhere,” Dawson agreed.

“Most of our funding is from European organizations, but their trust in us has waned over the years.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“As you said, finances are tight everywhere. Donors don’t want to pour their aid into some bottomless pit anymore. They’re saying to us, if you’re not rehabilitating a certain number of children or getting a certain number of kids successfully into school or a trade, what’s the point in our giving you money? In many ways, I understand their point of view. On the other hand, because we’re often dealing with transient children, some of the results the donors demand are unrealistic.”

Round the corner, Genevieve and Dawson went into a classroom where four young teenagers-three boys and one girl-were absorbed in front of computer screens learning word games under the supervision of a young female teacher. The boys, one of whom was bare-chested, all wore low-sagging basketball shorts. The girl had on a sleeveless red blouse and a wraparound skirt.

“These are poor children who live on the streets of an African city,” Genevieve said to Dawson, “yet they love computers and video games as much as any pampered boy or girl in the U.S.”

“Do you have Ghanaian traditional activities for them as well?” Dawson asked.

“Yes-for instance, we have drumming and dancing lessons on Fridays.”

“What was Ebenezer most interested in?”

“He was completely illiterate when he came to Accra, but he learned basic reading and writing during the time he was here. He was a good drummer as well.”

Dawson became aware of how close to Genevieve he was standing. She was wearing a light fragrance, but he also caught the pure scent of her skin-different from Christine’s but just as intoxicating. He moved back slightly, afraid of the attraction.

“Come this way, Inspector,” Genevieve said. “There’s much more to show you.”

Next door to the classroom was a small, rudimentary clinic run by a nurse, who was busy giving advice to a teenage mother cradling her baby.

“It’s young pregnancies like hers that often make school an impossible prospect for teenage girls,” Genevieve said as they went up to a room on the second floor with five sewing machines, two of them in use by girls training to be seamstresses. Beyond that was a woodshop, where two boys were carving traditional masks out of fresh mahogany.

The Refuge Room, the subject of the poster announcement downstairs, was the largest space so far. The front section had no furniture, just scores of floor mats on which a dozen or so children were lying down. Others were in the back recreation area playing table tennis and oware while the rest watched a DVD.

“This is their escape from the cruel streets,” Genevieve said. “Sometimes the kids stage small performances or poetry or rapping contests.”

“You do a lot of good work here,” Dawson said. “I’m really very impressed.”

“Thank you.”