Beverly Hills Maasai by Eric Walters Page A

to Nebala.
    I squeezed myself between Nebala and the table, then took his hand and tried to lift it up. I couldn’t budge it. He had the man’s hand trapped beneath his.
    “Olivia wants the money. She wishes to have some Kenyan money because someday she wants to go with me to Kenya … right, Olivia?”
    “I would
love
to go to Kenya.”
    “See? She wants the Kenyan shillings, and she’ll put the six hundred dollars on her card. You’re still paying.”
    I could see Nebala relax, and I was able to lift up his hand at last.
    The man removed his hand and rubbed his wrist with the other.
    “Please put it on her card,” I said.
    Tentatively he reached over and took the card. He looked relieved when Nebala didn’t try to stop him. He ran it through the machine, took out the little strip of paper, and handed it to Olivia. She signed it and handed it back. He took one copy, handed it to her, and placed the second with the three forms, stapling it to the top of one.
    “So is this it?” I asked. “Are they registered?”
    “Yes, just take these three receipts over to the next table and they’ll receive their race packages.”
    “Thank you,” I replied. “You’ve been very helpful.”
    We turned and started to walk away. I wasn’t sure who was more grateful we were leaving, him or me.
    “Wait!” the man called out.
    I turned around. What could he possibly want? Obviously Nebala hadn’t scared him enough.
    He was holding up his copy of one of the forms, and he came around the table toward us. “You failed to complete the
qualifying
section.”
    “There were a few sections that didn’t make sense to us.”
    “But this section is
essential.
We have to know what other races they have competed in.”
    “They haven’t run any other races,” I said.
    “What?” he demanded. “No other races?”
    “None. That’s why it’s blank. This will be their first.”
    “But to be able to run in this marathon they have to have been in other marathons and made the qualifying time.”
    “Qualifying time? What are you talking about?”
    “There are standards,” he snapped. “To qualify to run in the Beverly Hills Marathon you have to have previously run at least a 3:05.”
    “A what?”
    He shook his head and gave me a look that could only be described as disgusted. “You have to have run another marathon and finished in less than three hours and five minutes.”
    “Is that even possible?” I asked.
    “That is a high standard—five minutes less than to qualify for the Boston Marathon—but very, very doable.”
    “I’m sure they’ve run that fast before,” I said. “They are Maasai.”
    “I don’t care what they are,” he said. “They need documentation.”
    “But they don’t have any documentation!” I protested.
    “Then I’ll need those back.” He reached out and tried to grab the registration forms from me. I held on tightly, and he struggled to rip them out of my hands. He bent my hand back and he pushed.
    “Stop … you’re hurting—”
    Koyati leaped forward with lightning speed, and before I could say a word, he pushed the man backwards. Instantly he released my hand. Koyati pushed him back until he was pinned against the wall, standing on his tippy-toes, his feet almost off the ground. Our Maasai warrior was holding him in place with one hand pressed against his throat. The man’s eyes were bugged out, and now, finally, he looked as scared as he should have been.
    Olivia let out a scream, and the people who hadn’t seen what
had
happened were now all watching what
was
happening … and wondering if something worse was
about
to happen.
    “Koyati,” I called out, and he looked at me. “Could you let him down … please?” I asked sweetly.
    He didn’t respond. He continued to glare at the man. It was then I noticed that his free hand was hidden beneath his blanket. That could mean only one thing—it was holding on to a weapon. This could quickly go from bad to deadly.
    I put my hand