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brown women peered out the windows. The man must be their driver. A police officer was yelling at the small man. The officer waved his finger in the air. He was about a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the driver.
    I was out of the truck before Deng had fully stopped. I pushed my way through the chattering crowd. People called to me. They said there’d been an accident. I didn’t see another car or anyone hurt.
    It was a shakedown, probably. The women looked like NGO or embassy employees. The driver was Kenyan or Ugandan.
    â€œWhat’s the problem here?” I said.
    â€œI didn’t hit her,” the driver said. His voice squeaked with fright. “I didn’t. She came out of nowhere.”
    I glanced around. “Who?”
    â€œShe left. She wasn’t hurt.”
    â€œSo what’s the problem?”
    â€œI have this under control,” the cop said. “Go away.” He did not look friendly.
    I was glad I had Deng at my back.
    â€œHe wants fifty pounds,” the driver said. “Or he’ll take my license.”
    â€œAs the complainant has left the scene,” I said, “this matter is over. You can be on your way. Give the man back his license.”
    The cop turned to me. He took a step forward. People began to edge away.
    I held out my hand. “Ray Robertson.”
    He hesitated. I kept my hand extended. I looked into his face. I grinned like an idiot. At last, he took my hand in his. We shook, but I did not let go. I applied a bit of pressure. He was tall, but I was taller. And, I like to think, stronger willed. I pressed his hand and shuffled forward half a step. He stepped back. A couple more half steps and his butt was against the hood of the car. He tried to take his hand back, but I didn’t release it.
    â€œI hope we can resolve this,” I said. “As friends. As fellow police officers. No harm done, eh?”
    His eyes shifted. He saw the crowd of people watching us. Two guys having a friendly chat, getting on.
    â€œWe are finished,” he said at last. “You may go.”
    I let go of his hand, but I didn’t step away.
    I waited.
    He threw the license to the driver. “You go.”
    Then I stepped back. Everyone was smiling.
    The driver leapt into his car. The engine turned. It stalled. He finally got it started and pulled into the stream of traffic. Dust and gravel sprayed behind it.
    The cop gave me a big smile. He patted my shoulder. “Friends. Yes.”
    He sauntered away. The crowd dispersed and soon only Deng and I were standing on the side of the road.
    â€œYou take chances sometimes,” Deng said. “It was only fifty pounds. Let their embassy pay.”
    My blood boiled.
    â€œWe don’t ask for bribes. Not ever.” I began to give Deng a lecture on the value of public trust in the police. Then I noticed a twinkle in his eye. He knew. He just liked to poke me now and again.
    We went back to the truck.

Chapter Eleven
    I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a detective. I’m not. I’m just a uniformed officer. Back home, it was my job to keep the peace, hand out speeding tickets, break up Saturday night fights. When I got promoted to sergeant, I was put in charge of a platoon. I spent most of my time behind a desk, sending my officers onto the streets.
    I’m not trained in questioning suspects or in spotting clues.
    But here, in Juba, I was all I had to work with.
    I decided to pay another call on the Blue Nile.
    I told Deng I had a personal matter to attend to. He could pick me up for work later. He didn’t ask what was up.
    I waited until most of the dinner crowd would have left. Then I signed out a car and drove to the Blue Nile.
    I didn’t get very far. The guard at the gate recognized me. He dashed into his hut, probably to make a call.
    The little waitress also recognized me. She’d served me Nile perch and told me the woman who owned a red