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Read The Excerpt: City on the Edge by David Swinson


It was painstaking work, creating that fort out of a large thicket at the bottom of the hill. The opening was small and cut through the side so it couldn’t be spotted by any­one who might wander by. A tall cinder-block wall, about ten feet in height, stood a few feet in front and stretched across part of the bottom of the hill and down the road toward the Corniche. It surrounded an old abandoned peppermint-stick lighthouse. The wall made for good cover and didn’t restrict our view to the other side of the hill and down the same road to our apartment building, which was a couple of blocks up from the Corniche, and the Mediterranean Sea.The fort became our hideaway. We named it Chameleon Fort because a three-horned chameleon made its home in a tree that had twisted limbs bending over the top of the thicket. In retrospect, it should have had a name having to do with scorpions, spiders, or vipers. We used large sticks to swish and bang the ground on the inside to clear out as many of the creatures as we could. A lot more dangerous than expected to build that fort, but at the end, well worth the trouble. We were blinded to all the danger. Don’t know if it was stupidity or just youthful naivete.

Roddy and I spent most of our time at Chameleon Fort during the curfew. What else was there to do? No school. We were restricted, and not allowed to leave the building. But there we were. Our dads were never around, and I could only speak for my mother, not Roddy’s. She was always at the apartment of a friend or in her closed bedroom, drinking and smoking cigs. Micheline — our housekeeper, cook, nanny, sometimes friend — was easy. Snuck right by her. Never a problem, and even if she did catch me I knew she would have backed me up. So Roddy and I would meet on the ground floor in the garage area, then stealthily make our way to the fort.

We had binoculars and peered out the side entrance to focus down the road toward our apartment building and the Druze village to the right of it. Sometimes we imagined we were at war with the Druze, and had to gather intel based on our surveillance; when the old woman came out to dump the bucket of dirty water in the gutter; when the young man tended to the goats, or when the little girls were playing chase on the pavement in the front area of our building. Our true enemy was Toufique, always shadowboxing in the late afternoon when the sun was high. He wasn’t with the Druze, though. His grandfather, Abu Fouad, managed our building and owned the small convenience store on the ground floor by the road.

There were about fifty Druze of all ages living in homes made of tin and stone and found wood. We knew their routines well. We knew our apartment building well. All ten floors. I lived on the eighth floor and Roddy on the fourth. We set our sights on those who lived in our building sometimes. On occasion we’d get lucky and spot a woman coming out in a bikini or even topless to bathe in the sun. We’d chuckle, but back then our twelve-year-old bodies did not respond the way twelve-year-old boys would nowadays. It was a different time, and we were just silly boys caught up in a grand adventure. We knew right from wrong, but told ourselves this was okay because it was war. A kind of war. Our private war.

One late afternoon I was at the fort alone, spying. I had to be back for dinner soon, and on that day I was supposed to be at Roddy’s apartment, so I had to get back before the call to dinner. Couldn’t take a chance Micheline (or worse, my mother) would call the Stankeys.

Just as I was gathering my stuff and about to leave I heard rustling coming from the area of the road near the cinder-block wall. I peeked through the opening but couldn’t make them out. They were too close to the part of the wall that led down the road.

Sounded like two men talking.

They stopped at the bottom of the hill, to my left and only a couple of feet from the fort. They became a little clearer as I peeked through a narrow separation of the vines, but only from their chests down. One of the men had his back toward me, the other facing him. The man with his back toward me was dressed in dirty white baggy pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. The other wore clean khakis. I couldn’t see anything else. The man in the khakis had an aggressive tone. He spoke in the broken Arabic of an American or Brit. His hands were of a light complexion, not like the man with his back toward me. The back of the other man’s right hand

was darker. His Arabic was fluent, like he was born to the language.

The man with his back toward me repeated la, la, several times, which I understood to mean no. He sounded defensive.

Out of nowhere, the man who was facing me leaned into the other with force. I noticed his right hand strike the man in the chest. Sounded like a hard punch. The sound the other man made was one I’ll never forget. Like something more than getting the wind knocked out of you after a sucker punch. More like something confined for years finally escaping.

He lost his feet from under him and fell, his face inches from my position. He had a thick black beard and square-rimmed glasses. I recognized him.

His glassy eyes open wide. Does he see me?

He gurgled several words and released a breath like a long sigh. Blood from the corner of his mouth bubbled out and quietly burst to something like a teardrop that streamed down to get caught up in his beard.

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