GEORGE ALEC EFFINGER




BANTAM BOOKS NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND
A FIRE IN TOE SUN
A Bantam Spectra Book I April 1990
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Copyright © 7990 by George Alec Effinger. Cover art copyright © 7990 fry Steve and Paul
Youll.
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My grandfather, George Conrad Effinger, whom I never knew, was a police officer in the city
of Cleveland during the Depression. He was killed in the line of duty. This book is dedicated
to his memory, growing fainter now each year in the minds of those people who did know
him, except for his policeman's shield, Badge #374, hung with pride in a station house in
Cleveland.


Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they
forgive them.
—oscar wilde
The Picture of Dorian Gray
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 7e'd ridden for many days out the coast highway toward Mauretania, the part of Algeria
where I'd been born. In that time, even at its lethargic pace, the broken-down old bus had
carried us from the city to some town forsaken by Allah before it even learned what its name
was. Centuries come, centuries go: In the Arab world they arrive and depart loaded on the
roofs of shud-dering, rattling buses that are more trouble to keep in service than the long
parades of camels used to be. I re-membered what those bus rides were like from when I
was a kid, sitting or standing in the aisle with fifty other boys and men and maybe another
two dozen clinging up on the roof. The buses passed by my home then. I saw turbaned
heads, heads wearing fezes or knit caps, heads in white or checked keffiyas. All men. That
was something I planned to ask my father about, if I ever met him. "O my father," I would say,
"tell me why everyone on the bus is a man. Where are their women?"
And I always imagined that my father—I pictured him tall and lean with a fierce dark beard, a
hawk or an eagle of a man; he was, in my vision, Arab, although I had my mother's word that
he had been a Frenchman—I saw my father gazing thoughtfully into the bright sunlight,
framing a careful reply to his young son. "O Marid, my sweet one," he would say—and his
voice would be deep and husky, issuing from the back of his throat as if he never used his
lips to speak, although my mother said he wasn't like that at all—"Marid, the women will
come later. The men will send for them later."
"Ah," I would say. My father could pierce all riddles. I could not pose a question that he did
not have a proper answer for. He was wiser than our village shaykh more knowledgeable
than the man whose face filled the posters pasted on the wall we were pissing on. "Father," I
would ask him, "why are we pissing on this man's face?"
"Because it is idolatrous to put his face on such a poster, and it is fit only for a filthy alley like
this, and therefore the Prophet, may the blessing of Allah be on him and peace, tells us that
what we are doing to these images is just and right."
"And Father?" I would always have one more ques-tion, and he'd always be blissfully patient.
He would smile down at me, put one hand fondly behind my head. "Fa-ther? I have always
wanted to ask you, what do you do when you are pissing and your bladder is so full it feels
like it will explode before you can relieve it and while you are pissing, just then, the
muezzin—"
Saied hit me hard in the left temple with the palm of his hand. "You sleeping out here?"
I looked up at him. There was glare everywhere. I couldn't remember where the hell we were.
"Where the hell are we?" I asked him.
He snorted. "You're the one from the Maghreb, the great, wild west. You tell me."
"Have we got to Algeria yet?" I didn't think so.
"No, stupid. I've been sitting in that goddamn little coffeehouse for three hours charming the
warts off this fat fool. His name is Hisham."
"Where are we?"
"Just crossed through Carthage. We're on the out-skirts of Old Tunis now. So listen to me.
What's the old guy's name?"
"Huh? I don't remember."
He hit me hard in the right temple with the palm of his other hand. I hadn't slept in two nights.
I was a little confused. Anyway, he got the easy part of the job: Sitting around the bus stops,
drinking mint tea with the local ringleaders and gossiping about the marauding Christians
and the marauding Jews and the marauding heathen nig-gers and just in general being
goddamn smooth; and I got the piss-soaked alleys and the flies. I couldn't remember why we
divided this business up like that. After all, I was supposed to be in charge—it was my idea
to find this woman, it was my trip, we were using my money. But
Saied took the mint tea and the gossip, and I got—well, I don't have to go into that again.
We waited the appropriate amount of time. The sun was disappearing behind a western
wall; it was almost time for the sunset call to prayer. I stared at Saied, who was now dozing.
Good, I thought, now I get to hit him in the head. I had just gotten up and taken one little step,
when he looked up at me. "It's time, I guess," he said, -yawning. I nodded, didn't have
anything to add. So I sat back down, and Saied the Half-Hajj went into his act.
Saied is a natural-born liar, and it's a pleasure to watch him hustle. He had the personality
module he liked best plugged into his brain—his heavy-duty, steel-belted, mean mother of a
tough-guy moddy. Nobody messed with the Half-Hajj when he was chipping that one in.
Back home in the city, Saied thought it was beneath him to earn money. He liked to sit in the
cafes with me and Mahmoud and Jacques, all day and all evening. His little chicken, the
American boy everybody called Abdul-Hassan, went out with older men and brought home
the rent money. Saied liked to sneer a lot and wear his gal-lebeya cinched with a wide
black leather belt, which was decorated with shiny chrome-steel strips and studs. The
Half-Hajj was always careful of his appearance.
What he was doing in this vermin-infested roadside slum was what he called fun. I waited a
few minutes and followed him around the corner and into the coffeehouse. I shuffled in,
unkempt, filthy, and took a chair in a shad-owy corner. The proprietor glanced at me,
frowned, and turned back to Saied. Nobody ever paid any attention to me. Saied was
finishing the tail end of a joke I'd heard him tell a do/en times since we'd left the city. When
he came to the payoff, the shopkeeper and the four other men at the long counter burst into
laughter. They liked Saied. He could make people like him whenever he wanted. That tilent
was programmed into an add-on chip snapped into - badass moddy. With the right moddy
and the right iddy chips, it didn't matter where you'd been born or how you'd been raised.
You could fit in with any sort of people, you could speak any language, you could handle
mrself in any situation. The information was fed directly to your short-term memory. You
could literally become
another person, Ramses II or Buck Rogers in the 25th century, until you popped the moddy
and daddies out.
Saied was being rough and dangerous, but he was also being charming, if you can imagine
that combination. I watched the shop owner reach and grab the teapot. He poured some into
the Half-Hajj's glass, slopping some more on the wooden counter. Nobody moved to mop it
up. Saied raised the glass to drink, then slammed it down again. "Yaa salaam!" he roared.
He leaped up.
"What is it, O my friend?" asked Hisham, the propri-etor.
"My ring!" Saied shouted. He was wearing a large gold ring, and he'd been waving it under
the old man's nose for two solid hours. It had had a big, round diamond in its center.
"What's the matter with your ring?"
"Look for yourself! The stone—my diamond—it's gone!"
Hisham caught Saied's flapping arm and saw that, indeed, the diamond was now missing.
"Must have fallen out," the old man said, with the sort of folk wisdom you find only in these
petrified provincial villages.
"Yes, fallen out," said Saied, not calmed in the least. "But where?"
"Do you see it?"
Saied made a great show of searching the floor around his stool. "No, I'm sure it's not here,"
he said at last.
"Then it must be out in the alley. You must've lost it the last time you went out to piss."
Saied slammed the bar with his heavy fist. "And now it's getting dark, and I must catch the
bus."
"You still have time to search," said Hisham. He didn't sound very confident.
The Half-Hajj laughed without humor. "A stone like that, worth four thousand Tunisian dinars,
looks like a tiny pebble among a million others. In the twilight I'd never find it. What am I to
do?"
The old man chewed his lip and thought for a mo-ment. "You're determined to leave on the
bus, when it passes through?" he asked.
"I must, O my brother. I have urgent business."
"I'll help you if I can. Perhaps I can find the stone for
you. You must leave your name and address with me; then if I find the diamond, I'll send it to
you."
"May the blessings of Allah be on you and on your family!" said Saied. "I have little hope that
you'll succeed, but it comforts me to know you will do your best for me. I'm in your debt. We
must determine a suitable reward for you."
Hisham looked at Saied with narrowed eyes. "I ask no reward," he said slowly.
"No, of course not, but I insist on offering you one."
"No reward is necessary. I consider it my duty to help you, as a Muslim brother."
"Still," Saied went on, "should you find the wretched stone, I'll give you a thousand Tunisian
dinars for the sustenance of your children and the ease of your aged parents."
"Let it be as you wish," said Hisham with a small bow.
"Here," said my friend, "let me write my address for you." While Saied was scribbling his
name on a scrap of paper, I heard the rumbling of the bus as it lurched to a stop outside the
building.
"May Allah grant you a good journey," said the old man.
"And may He grant you prosperity and peace," said Saied, as he hurried out to the bus.
I waited about three minutes. Now it was my turn. I stood up and staggered a couple of
steps. I had a lot of trouble walking in a straight line. I could see the shop-keeper glaring at
me in disgust. "The hell do you want, you filthy beggar?" he said.
"Some water," I said.
"Water! Buy something or get out!"
"Once a man asked the Messenger of God, may Al-lah's blessings be on him, what was the
noblest thing a man may do. The reply was 'To give water to he who thirsts.' I ask this of
you."
"Ask the Prophet. I'm busy."
I nodded. I didn't expect to get anything free to drink out of this crud. I leaned against his
counter and stared at a wall. I couldn't seem to make the place stand still.
"Now what do you want? I told you to go away."
"Trying to remember," I said peevishly. "I had some-thing to tell you. Ah, yes, I know." I
reached into a pocketof my jeans and brought out a glittering round stone. "Is this what that
man was looking for? I found this out there. Is this—?"
The old man tried to snatch it out of my hand. "Where'd you get that? The alley, right? My
alley. Then it's mine."
"No, I found it. It's—"
"He said he wanted me to look for it." The shop-keeper was already gazing into the
distance, spending the reward money.
"He said he'd pay you money for it."
"That's right. Listen, I've got his address. Stone's no good to you without the address."
I thought about that for a second or two. "Yes, O Shaykh."
"And the address is no good to me without the stone. So here's my offer: I'll give you two
hundred dinars for it."
"Two hundred? But he said—"
"He said he'd give me a thousand. Me, you drunken fool. It's worthless to you. Take the two
hundred. When was the last time you had two hundred dinars to spend?"
"A long time."
"I'll bet. So?"
"Let me have the money first."
"Let me have the stone."
"The money."
The old man growled something and turned away. He brought a rusty coffee can up from
under the counter. There was a thick wad of money in it, and he fished out two hundred
dinars in old, worn bills. "Here you are, and damn your mother for a whore."
I took the money and stuffed it into my pocket. Then I gave the stone to Hisham. "If you
hurry," I said, slurring my words despite the fact that I hadn't had a drink or any drugs all day,
"you'll catch up with him. The bus hasn't left yet."
The man grinned at me. "Let me give you a lesson in shrewd business. The esteemed
gentleman offered me a thousand dinars for a four thousand dinar stone. Should I take the
reward, or sell the stone for its full value?"
"Selling the stone will bring trouble," I said.
"Let me worry about that. Now you go to hell. I don't ever want to see you around here
again."
He needn't worry about that. As I left the decrepit coffeehouse, I popped out the moddy I was
wearing. I don't know where the Half-Hajj had gotten it; it had a Malaccan label on it, but I
didn't think it was an over-the-counter piece of hardware. It was a dumbing-down
moddy; when I chipped it in, it ate about half of my intel-lect and left me shambling, stupid,
and just barely able to carry out my half of the plan. With it out, the world sud-denly poured
back into my consciousness, and it was like waking from a bleary, drugged sleep. I was
always angry for half an hour after I popped that moddy. I hated myself for agreeing to wear
it, I hated Saied for conning me into doing it. He wouldn't wear it, not the Half-Hajj and his
precious self-image. So I wore it, even though I'm gifted with twice the intracranial
modifications of anybody else around, enough daddy capacity to make me the most
talented son of a bitch in creation. And still Saied per-suaded me to damp myself out to the
point of near vegeta-bility.
On the bus, I sat next to him, but I didn't want to talk to him or listen to him gloat.
"What'd we get for that chunk of glass?" he wanted to know. He'd already replaced the real
diamond in his ring.
I just handed the money to him. It was his game, it was his score. I couldn't have cared less. I
don't even know why I went along with him, except that he'd said he wouldn't come to Algeria
with me unless I did.
He counted the bills. "Two hundred? That's all? We got more the last two times. Oh well,
what the hell—that's two hundred dinars more we can blow in Algiers. 'Come with me to the
Kasbah.' Little do those gazelle-eyed boys know what's stealing toward them even now,
through the lemon-scented night."
"This stinking bus, that's what, Saied."
He looked at me with wide eyes, then laughed. "You got no romance in you, Marid," he said.
"Ever since you had your brain wired, you been no fun at all."
"How about that." I didn't want to talk anymore. I pretended that I was going to sleep. I just
closed my eyes and listened to the bus thumping and thudding over the broken pavement,
with the unending arguments and laughter of the other passengers all around me. It was
crowded and hot on that reeking bus, but it was carrying
me hour by hour nearer to the solution of my own mys-tery. I had come to a point in my life
where I needed to find out who I really was.
The bus stopped in the Barbary town of Annaba, and an old man with a grizzled gray beard
came aboard selling apricot nectar. I got some for myself and some for the Half-Hajj.
Apricots are the pride of Mauretania, and the juice was the first real sign that I was getting
close to home. I closed my eyes and inhaled that delicate apricot aroma, then swallowed a
mouthful of juice and savored the thick sweetness. Saied just gulped his down with a grunt
and gave me a blunt "Thanks." The guy's got all the refinement of a dead bat.
The road angled south, away from the dark, invisible coast toward the city of Constantine.
Although it was get-ting late, almost midnight, I told Saied that I wanted to get off the bus and
grab some supper. I hadn't eaten anything since noon. Constantine is built on a high
limestone bluff, the only ancient town in eastern Algeria to survive through centuries of
foreign invasions. The only thing I cared about, though, was food. There is a local dish in
Constantine called chorba beida bel kefta, a meatball soup made with onions, pepper,
chickpeas, almonds, and cinnamon. I hadn't tasted it in at least fifteen years, and I didn't
care if it meant missing the bus and having to wait until tomorrow for another, I was going to
have some. Saied thought I was crazy.
I had my soup, and it was wonderful. Saied just watched me wordlessly and sipped a glass
of tea. We got back on the bus in time. I felt good now, comfortably full and warmed by a
nostalgic glow. I took the window seat, hoping that I'd be able to see some familiar
landscape as we passed through Jijel and Mansouria. Of course, it was as black as the
inside of my pocket beyond the glass, and I saw nothing but the moon and the fiercely
twinkling stars. Still, I pretended to myself that I could make out land-marks that meant I was
drawing closer to Algiers, the city where I had spent a lot of my childhood.
When at last we pulled into Algiers sometime after sunrise, the Half-Hajj shook me awake. I
didn't remember falling asleep. I felt terrible. My head felt like it had been crammed full of
sharp-edged broken glass, and I had a pinched nerve in my neck, too. I took out my pillcase
and
stared into it for a while. Did I prefer to make my en-trance into Algiers hallucinating,
narcotized, or somnambulant? It was a difficult decision. I went for pain-free but conscious,
so I fished out eight tabs of Sonneine. The sunnies obliterated my headache—and every
other mildly unpleasant sensation—and I more or less floated from the bus station in
Mustapha to a cab.
"You're stoned," said Saied when we got to the back of the taxi. I told the driver to take us to
a public data library.
"Me? Stoned? When have you ever known me to be stoned so early in the morning?"
"Yesterday. The day before yesterday. The day be-fore that."
"I mean except for then. I function better with a ton of opiates in me than most people do
straight."
"Sure you do."
I stared out the taxi's window. "Anyway," I said, "I've got a rack of daddies that can
compensate." There isn't another blazebrain in the Arab world with the custom-made
equipment I've got. My special daddies control my hypothalamic functions, so I can tune out
fatigue and fear, hunger and thirst and pain. They can boost my sensory input too.
"Marid Audran, Silicon Superman."
"Look," I said, annoyed by Saied's attitude, "for a long time I was terrified of getting wired,
but now I don't know how I ever got along without it."
"Then why the hell are you still decimating your brain cells with drugs?" asked the Half-Hajj.
"Call me old-fashioned. Besides, when I pop the dad-dies out, I feel terrible. All that
suppressed fatigue and pain hit me at once."
"And you don't get paybacks with your sunnies and beauties, right? That what you're
saying?"
"Shut up, Saied. Why the hell are you so concerned all of a sudden?"
He looked at me sideways and smiled. "The religion has this ban on liquor and hard drugs,
you know." And this coming from the Half-Hajj who, if he'd ever been inside a mosque in his
life, was there only to check out the boys' school.
So in ten or fifteen minutes the cab driver let us out at
the library. I felt a peculiar nervous excitement, although I didn't understand why. All I was
doing was climbing the granite steps of a public building; why should I be so wound up? I
tried to occupy my mind with more pleasant thoughts.
Inside, there were a number of terminals vacant. I sat down at the gray screen of a battered
Bab el-Marifi. It asked me what sort of search I wanted to conduct. The machine's voice
synthesizer had been designed in one of the North American republics, and it was having a
lot of trouble pronouncing Arabic. I said, "Name," then "Enter." When the cursor
appeared again, I said, "Monroe comma Angel." The data deck thought about that for a
while, then white letters began flicking across its bright face:
Angel Monroe
16, Rue du Sahara '
(Upper) Kasbah
Algiers
Mauretania
04-B-28
I had the machine print out the address. The Half-Hajj raised his eyebrows at me and I
nodded. "Looks like I'm gonna get some answers."
"Inshallah," murmured Saied. If God wills.
We went back out into the hot, steamy morning to find another taxi. It didn't take long
to get from the library to the Kasbah. There wasn't as much traffic as I remem-bered from my
childhood—not vehicular traffic, anyway; but there was still the slow, unavoidable battalions
of   I heavily laden donkeys being cajoled through the narrow          I streets.
The Rue du Sahara is a mistake. I remember someone telling me long ago that the true
name of the street was actually the Rue N'sara, or Street of the Christians. I don't know how
it got corrupted. Very little of Algiers has any real connection to the Sahara. After all, it's a
hell of a long hike from the Mediterranean port to the desert. It doesn't make any difference
these days, though; the new name is the only one anyone ever uses. It's even found its way
onto all the official maps, so that closes the matter.
Number 16 was an exhausted, crumbling brick pile
with two bulging upper stories that hung out over the cobbled street. The apartment house
across the way did the same, and the two buildings almost kissed above my head, like two
dowdy old matrons leaning across a back fence. There was a jumble of mail slots, and I
found Angel Monroe's name scrawled on a card in fading ink. I jammed my thumb on her
buzzer. There was no lock on the front door, so I went in and climbed the first flight of stairs.
Saied was right behind me.
Her apartment turned out to be on the third floor, in the rear. The hallway was carpeted, if
that's the right word, with a dull, gritty fabric that had at one time been maroon. The traffic of
uncountable feet had completely worn through the material in many places, so that the dry
gray wood of the floor was visible through the holes. The walls were covered with a filthy tan
wallpaper, hanging down here and there in forlorn strips. The air had an odd, sour tang to it,
as if the building were occupied by people who had come there to die, or who were certainly
sick enough to die but instead hung on in lonely misery. From behind one door I could hear a
family battle, complete with bellowed threats and crashing crockery, while from another
apartment came insane, high-pitched laughter and the sound of flesh loudly smacking flesh. I
didn't want to know about it.
I stood outside the shabby door to Angel Monroe's flat and took a deep breath. I glanced at
the Half-Hajj, but he just gave me a shrug and pointedly looked away. Some friend. I was on
my own. I told myself that nothing weird was going to happen—a lie just to get myself to take
the next step—and then I knocked on the door. There was no response. I waited a few
seconds and knocked again, louder. This time I heard the rattle and squeak of bedsprings
and the sound of someone coming slowly to the door. The door swung open. Angel Monroe
stared out, trying very hard to focus her eyes.
She was a full head shorter than me, with bleached blond hair curled tightly into an
arrangement I would call "ratty." Her black roots looked as if no one had given them much
attention since the Prophet's birthday. Her eyes were banded with dark blue and black
makeup, in a manner that brought to mind the more colorful Mediter-ranean saltwater fish.
The rouge she wore was applied
liberally, but not quite in the right places, so she didn't look so much wantonly sexy as she
did feverishly ill. Her lipstick, for reasons best known to Allah and Angel Monroe, was a kind
of pulpy purple color; her lips looked like she'd bought them first and forgot to put them in the
refrigerator while she shopped for the rest of her face.
Her body led me to believe that she was too old to be dressed in anything but the long white
Algerian hai'k, with a veil conservatively and firmly in place. The prob-lem was that this body
had never seen the inside of a hai'k. She was clad now in shorts so small that her
well-rounded belly was bending the waistband over. Her sagging breasts were not
quite clothed in a kind of gauzy vest. I knew for certain that if she sat in a chair, you could
safely hide the world's most valuable gem in her navel and it would be completely invisible.
Her legs were patterned with broken veins like the dry chebka valleys of the Mzab. On her
broad, flat feet she wore tattered slippers with the remains of pink fuzzy bows dangling
loose.
To tell the truth, I felt a certain disgust. "Angel Monroe?" I asked. Of course that wasn't her
real name. She was at least half Berber, as I am. Her skin was darker than mine, her eyes
as black and dull as eroded asphalt.
"Uh huh," she said. "Kind of early, ain't it?" Her voice was sharp and shrill. She was already
very drunk. "Who sent you? Did Khalid send you? I told that goddamn bas-tard I was sick. I
ain't supposed to be working today, I told him last night. He said it was all right. And then he
sends you. Two of you, yet. Who the hell does he think I am? And it ain't like he don't have no
other girls, either. He could have sent you to Efra, that whore, with her plug-in talent. If I ain't
feeling good, it don't bother me if he sends you to her. Hell, I don't care. How much you give
him, anyway?"
I stood there, looking at her. Saied gave me a jab in the side. "Well, uh, Miss Monroe," I
said, but then she started chattering again.
"The hell with it. Come on in. I guess I can use the money. But you tell that son of a bitch
Khalid that—" She paused to take a long gulp from the tall glass of whiskey she was
holding. "You tell him if he don't care enough about my health, I mean, making me work when
I already told him I was sick, then hell, you tell him there are plenty
of others I can go work for. Anytime I want to, you can believe that."
I tried twice to interrupt her, but I didn't have any success. I waited until she stopped to take
another drink. While she had her mouth full of the cheap liquor, I said, "Mother?"
She just stared at me for a moment, her filmy eyes wide. "No," she said at last, in a small
voice. She looked closer. Then she dropped her whiskey glass to the floor.


Layter, after the return trip from Algiers and Maureta-ia, when I got back home to the city the
first place I eaded was the Budayeen. L used to live right in the heart of the walled quarter,
but events and fate and Fried-lander Bey had made that impossible now. I used to have a lot
of friends in the Budayeen too, and I was welcome anywhere; but now there were really only
two people who were generally glad to see me: Saied the Half-Hajj, and Chiriga, who ran a
club on the Street halfway be-tween the big stone arch and the cemetery. Chiri's place had
always been my home-away-from-home, where I could sit and have a few drinks in peace,
hear the gossip, and not get threatened or hustled by the working girls.
Once upon a time I'd had to kill a few people, mostly in self-defense. More than one club
owner had told me never to set foot in his bar again. After that, a lot of my friends decided
that they could do without my company, but Chiri had more sense.
She's a hard-working woman, a tall black African with ritual facial scars and sharply filed
cannibal teeth. To be honest, I don't really know if those canines of hers are mere
decoration, like the patterns on her forehead and cheeks, or a sign that dinner at her house
was composed of delicacies implicitly and explicitly forbidden by the noble Qur'n. Chiri's a
moddy, but she thinks of herself as a smart moddy. At work, she's always herself. She chips
in her fantasies at home, where she won't bother anyone else. I respect that.
When I came through the club's door, I was struck first by a welcome wave of cool air. Her
air conditioning, as undependable as all old Russian-made hardware is, was working for a
change. I felt better already. Chiri was deep
in conversation with a customer, some bald guy with a bare chest. He was wearing black
vinyl pants with the look of real leather, and his left hand was handcuffed behind him to his
belt. He had a corymbic implant on the crest of his skull, and a pale green plastic moddy
was feeding him somebody else's personality. If Chiri was giv-ing him the time of day, then
he couldn't have been dan-gerous, and probably he wasn't even all that obnoxious.
Chiri doesn't have much patience with the crowd she caters to. Her philosophy is that
somebody has to sell them liquor and drugs, but that doesn't mean she has to social-ize
with them.
I was her old pal, and I knew most of the girls who worked for her. Of course, there were
always new faces— and I mean new, carved out of dull, plain faces with surgi-cal skill,
turning ordinary looks into enthralling artificial beauty. The old-time employees got fired or
quit in a huff on a regular basis; but after working for Frenchy Benoit or Jo-Mama for a while,
they circulated back to their former jobs. They left me pretty much alone, because I'd rarely
buy them cocktails and I didn't have any use for their professional charms. The new girls
could try hustling me, but Chiri usually told them to lay off.
In their unforgiving eyes I'd become the Creature Without A Soul. People like Blanca and
Fanya and Yasrnin looked the other way if I caught their eye. Some of the girls didn't know
what I'd done or didn't care, and they kept me from feeling like a total outcast. Still, it was a
lot quieter and lonelier for me in the Budayeen than it used to be. I tried not to care.
"Jambo, Bwana Marid!" Chiriga called to me when she noticed that I was sitting nearby.
She left the hand-cuffed moddy and drifted slowly down her bar, plopping a cork coaster in
front of me. "You come to share your wealth with this poor savage. In my native land, my
peo-ple have nothing to eat and wander many miles in search of water. Here I have found
peace and plenty. I have learned what friendship is. I have found disgusting men who would
touch the hidden parts of my body. You will buy me drinks and leave me a huge tip. You will
tell all your new friends about my place, and they will come in and want to touch the hidden
parts of my body. I will own many shiny, cheap things. It is all as God wills." •


I stared at her for a few seconds. Sometimes it's hard to figure what kind of mood Chiri's in.
"Big nigger girl talk dumb," I said at last.
She grinned and dropped her ignorant Dinka act. "Yeah, you right," she said. "What is it
today?"
"Gin," I said. I usually have a shot of gin and a shot of bingara over ice, with a little Rose's
lime juice. The drink is my own invention, but I've never gotten around to naming it. Other
times I have vodka gimlets, because that's what Philip Marlowe drinks in The Long
Goodbye. Then on those occasions when I just really want to get loaded fast, I drink from
Chiri's private stock of tende, a truly loathsome African liquor from the Sudan or the Congo
or someplace, made, I think, from fermented yams and spadefoot toads. If you are ever
offered tende, DO NOT TASTE IT. You will be sorry. Allah knows that I am.
The dancer just finishing her last number was an Egyptian girl named Indihar. I'd known her
for years. She used to work for Frenchy Benoit, but now she was wig-gling her ass in Chiri's
club. She came up to me when she got offstage, wrapped now in a pale peach-colored
shawl that had little success in concealing her voluptuous body. "Want to tip me for my
dancing?" she asked.
"It would give me untold pleasure," I said. I took a kiam bill from my change and stuffed it into
her cleavage. If she was going to treat me like a mark, I was going to act like one. "Now," I
said, "I won't feel guilty about going home and fantasizing about you all night."
"That'll cost you extra," she said, moving down the bar toward the bare-chested guy in the
vinyl pedal push-ers.
I watched her walk away. "I like that girl," I said to Chiriga.
"That's our Indihar, one fine package of suntanned fun," said Chiri.
Indihar was a real girl with a real personality, a rarity in that club. Chiri seemed to prefer in
her employees the high-velocity prettiness of a sexchange. Chiri told me once that changes
take better care of their appearance. Their prefab beauty is their whole life. Allah forbid that
a single hair of their eyebrows should be out of place.
By her own standards, Indihar was a good Muslim woman too. She didn't have the head
wiring that most
dancers had. The more conservative imams taught that the implants fell under the same
prohibition as intoxi-cants, because some people got their pleasure centers i
wired and spent the remainder of their short lives amp- 1         addicted. Even if, as in my case,
the pleasure center is left alone, the use of a moddy submerges your own personal-ity, and
that is interpreted as insobriety. Needless to say, while I have nothing but the warmest
affection for Allah )    and His Messenger, I stop short of being a fanatic about it. I'm with
that twentieth-century King Saud who de- manded that the Islamic leaders of his
country stop drag-ging their feet when it came to technological progress. I don't see any
essential conflict between modern science and a thoughtful approach to religion.
Chiri looked down the bar. "All right," she called out loudly, "which one of you motherfuckers'
turn is it? Ja-nelle? I don't want to have to tell you to get up and dance again. If I got to
remind you to play your goddamn music one more time, I'm gonna fine you fifty kiam. Now
move your fat ass." She looked at me and sighed. "Life is tough," I said. Indihar came back
up the bar after collecting what-ever she could pry out of the few glum customers. She sat on
the stool beside me. Lake Chiri, she didn't seem to get nightmares from talking with me.
"So what's it like," she asked, "working for Friedlander Bey?"
"You tell me." One way or another, everybody in the Budayeen works for Papa. She
shrugged. "I wouldn't take his money if I was starving, in prison, and had cancer."
This, I guessed, was a dig, a not-very-veiled reference to the fact that I had sold out to get
my implants. I just swallowed some more gin and bingara.
Maybe one of the reasons I went to Chiri's whenever I needed a little cheering up is that I
grew up in places just
like it. My mother had been a dancer when I was a baby, after my father ran off. When the
situation got real bad,
she started turning tricks. Some girls in the clubs do that, some don't. My mother had to.
When things got even
harder, she sold my little brother. That's something she won't talk about. I won't
talk about it, either.
My mother did the best she knew how. The Arab world has never put much value on
education for women.
Everybody knows how the more traditional—that is to say, more backward and
unregenerate—Arab men treat , their wives and daughters. Their camels get more respect.
   Now, in the big cities like Damascus and Cairo, you can see modern women wearing
Western-style clothing, hold-ing down jobs outside the home, sometimes even smoking
cigarettes on the street. In Mauretania, I'd seen that the attitudes there were still rigid.
Women wore long white robes and veils, with hoods or kerchiefs covering their hair.
Twenty-five years ago, my mother had no place in the legitimate job market.            >' But
there is always a small population of lost souls, of course—people who scoff at
the dictates of the holy Qur'an, men and women who drink alcohol and gamble and
indulge in sex for pleasure. There is always a place for        a young woman whose morals
have been ground away by         ' hunger and despair.
When I saw her again in Algiers, my mother's appear-ance had shocked me. In my
imagination, I'd pictured her as a respectable, moderately well-to-do matron living in a
comfortable neighborhood. I hadn't seen or spoken to her in years, but I just figured she'd
managed to lift herself out of the poverty and degradation. Now I thought maybe she was
happy as she was, a haggard, strident old whore. I spent an hour with her, hoping to hear
what I'd come to learn, trying to decide how to behave toward her, and being embarrassed
by her in front of the Half-Hajj. She didn't want to be troubled by her children. I got the
im-pression that she was sorry she hadn't sold me too, when she'd sold Hussain
Abdul-Qahhar, my brother. She didn't like me dropping back into her life after all those
years. "Believe me," I told her, "I didn't like hunting you up, either. I only did it because I have
to." "Why do you have to?" she wanted to know. She reclined on a musty-smelling, torn old
sofa that was cov-ered with cat hair. She'd made herself another drink, but had neglected to
offer me or Saied anything.
"It's important to me," I said. I told her about my life in the faraway city, how I'd lived as a
subsonic hustler
until Friedlander Bey had chosen me as the instrument of his will.
"You live in the city now?" She said that with a nostalgic longing. I never knew she'd been to
the city.
"I lived in the Budayeen," I said, "but Friedlander Bey moved me into his palace."
"You work for him?"
"I had no choice." I shrugged. She nodded. It sur-prised me that she knew who Papa was
too.
"So what did you come for?"
That was going to be hard to explain. "I wanted to find out everything I could about my
father."
She looked at me over the rim of her whiskey glass. "You already heard everything," she
said.
"I don't think so. How sure are you that this French sailor was my dad?"
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "His name was Bernard Audran. We met in a
coffee shop. I was living in Sidi-bel-Abbes then. He took me to dinner, we liked each other. I
moved in with him. We came to live in Algiers after that, and we were together for a year and
a half. Then after you was born, one day he just left. I never heard from him again. I don't
know where he went."
"I do. Into the ground, that's where. Took me a long time, but I traced Algerian computer
records back far enough. There was a Bernard Audran in the navy of Provence, and he was
in Mauretania when the French Confederate Union tried to regain control over us. The
problem is that his brains were bashed out by some un-identified noraf more than a year
before I was born. Maybe you could think back and see if you can get a clearer picture of
those events."
That made her furious. She jumped up and flung her half-full glass of liquor at me. It smashed
into the already stained and streaked wall to my right. I could smell the pungent, undiluted
sharpness of the Irish whiskey. I heard Saied murmuring something beside me, maybe a
prayer. My mother took a couple of steps toward me, her face ugly with rage. "You calling
me a liar?" she shrieked.
Well, I was. "I'm just telling you that the official records say something different."
"Fuck the official records!"
"The records also say that you were married seven times in two years. No mention of any
divorces."
My mother's anger faltered a bit. "How did that get in the computers? I never got officially
married, not with no license or nothing."


"I think you underestimate the government's talent for keeping track of people. It's all there
for anybody to see."
Now she looked frightened. "What else'd you find out?"
I let her off her own hook. "Nothing else. There wasn't anything more. You want something
else to stay buried, you don't have to worry." That was a lie; I had learned plenty more about
my mom.
"Good," she said, relieved. "I don't like you prying into what I done. It don't show respect."
I had an answer to that, but I didn't use it. "What started all this nostalgic research," I said in
a quiet voice, "was some business I was taking care of for Papa." Every-body in the
Budayeen calls Friedlander Bey "Papa." It's an affectionate token of terror. "This police
lieutenant who handled matters in the Budayeen died, so Papa de-cided that we needed a
kind of public affairs officer, some-body to keep communications open between him and the
police department. He asked me to take the job."
Her mouth twisted. "Oh yeah? You got a gun now? You got a badge?" It was from my mother
that I learned my dislike for cops.
"Yeah," I said, "I got a gun and a badge."
"Your badge ain't any good in Algiers, salaud."
"They give me professional courtesy wherever I go." I didn't even know if that was true here.
"The point is, while I was deep in the cop comp, I took the opportunity to read my own file
and a few others. The funny thing was, my name and Friedlander Bey's kept popping up
to-gether. And not just in the records of the last few years. I counted at least eight
entries—hints, you understand, but nothing definite—that suggested the two of us were
blood kin." That got a loud reaction from the Half-Hajj; maybe I should have told him about all
this before.
"So?" said my mother.
"The hell kind of answer is that? So what does it mean? You ever jam Friedlander Bey, back
in your golden youth?"
She looked raving mad again. "Hell, I jammed lots of guys. You expect me to remember all
of them? I didn't even remember what they looked like while I was jam-ming them." "You
didn't want to get involved, right? You just wanted to be good friends. Were you ever friends
enough to give credit? Or did you always ask for the cash up front?"
"Maghrebi," cried Saied, "this is your mother!" I didn't think it was possible to shock him.
"Yeah, it's my mother. Look at her."
She crossed the room in three steps, reached back, and gave me a hard slap across the
face. It made me fall back a step. "Get the fuck out of here!" she yelled.
I put my hand to my cheek and glared at her. "You answer one thing first: Could Friedlander
Bey be my real father?"
Her hand was poised to deliver another clout. "Yeah, he could be, the way practically any
man could be. Go back to the city and climb up on his knee, sonny boy. I don't ever want to
see you around here again."
She could rest easy on that score. I turned my back on her and left that repulsive hole in the
wall. I didn't bother to shut the door on the way out. The Half-Hajj did, and then he hurried to
catch up with me. I was storming down the stairs. "Listen, Marid," he said. Until he spoke, I
didn't realize how wild I was. "I guess all this is a big surprise to you—"
"You do? You're very perceptive today, Saied."
"—but you can't act that way toward your mother. Remember what it says—"
"In the Qur'an? Yeah, I know. Well, what does the Straight Path have to say about,
prostitution? What does it have to say about the kind of degenerate my holy mother has
turned into?"
"You've got a lot of room to talk. If there was a cheaper hustler in the Budayeen, I never
met him."
I smiled coldly. "Thanks a lot, Saied, but I don't live in the Budayeen anymore. You forget?
And I don't hustle anybody or anything. I got a steady job."
He spat at my feet. "You used to do nearly anything to make a few kiam."
"Anyway, just because I used to be the scum of the earth, it doesn't make it all right for my
mother to be scum too."
"Why don't you just shut up about her? I don't want to hear about it."
"Your empathy just grows and grows, Saied," I said. "You don't know everything I know. My
alma mater back there was into renting herself to strangers long before she had to support
my brother and me. She wasn't the forlorn heroine she always said she was. She glossed
over a lot of the truth."
The Half-Hay looked me hard in the eye for a few seconds. "Yeah?" he said. "Half the girls,
changes, and debs we know do the same thing, and you don't have any problem treating
them like human beings."
I was about to say, "Sure, but none of them is my mother." I stopped myself. He would have
jumped on that sentiment too, and besides, it was starting to sound foolish even to me. The
edge of my anger had vanished. I think I was just greatly annoyed to have to learn these
things after so many years. It was hard for me to accept. I mean, now I had to forget almost
everything I thought I knew about myself. For one thing, I'd always been proud of the fact that
I was half-Berber and half-French. I dressed in European style most of the time—boots and
jeans and work shirts. I suppose I'd always felt a little superior to the Arabs I lived among.
Now I had to get used to the thought that I could very well be half-Berber and half-Arab.
The raucous, thumping sound of mid-twenty-first-century hispo roc broke into my daydream.
Some forgot-ten band was growling an ugly chant about some damn thing or other. I've
never gotten around to learning any Spanish dialects, and I don't own a Spanish-language
daddy. If I ever run into any Columbian industrialists, they can just damn well speak Arabic. I
have a soft spot in my liver for them because of their production of narcotics, but outside of
that I don't see what South America is for. The world doesn't need an overpopulated,
starving, Span-ish-speaking India in the Western Hemisphere. Spain, their mother country,
tried Islam and said a polite no-thank-you, and their national character sublimed right off into
nothingness. That's Allah punishing them.
"I hate that song," said Indihar. Chiri had given her a glass of Sharab, the soft drink the clubs
keep for girls who don't drink alcohol, like Indihar. It's exactly the same color as champagne.
Chiri always fills a cocktail glass with ice and pours in a few ounces of soda—which should
be a
tip-off to the mark: you don't get ice in your champagne in the real world. But the ice takes up
a lot of space where the more expensive stuff would go. That'll cost a sucker eight kiam and
a tip for Chiri. The club kicks three bills back to the girl who got the drink. That motivates the
employees to go through their cocktails at supersonic speed. The usual excuse is that it's
thirsty work whirling like a derwish to the cheers of the crowd.
Chiri turned to watch Janelle, who was on her last song. Janelle doesn't really dance, she
flounces. She takes five or six steps to one end of the stage, waits for the next heavy-footed
bass drum beat, then does a kind of shrug-ging, quivering thing with her upper body that she
must think is torridly sexy. She's wrong. Then she flounces back the other way to the
opposite end of the stage and does her spasm number again. The whole time she's
lip-synch-ing, not to the lyrics, but to the wailing lead keypad line. Janelle the Human
Synthesizer. Janelle the Synthetic Hu-man is closer to the truth. She wears a moddy every
day, but you have to talk to her to find out which one. One day she's soft and erotic (Honey
Pilar), the next day she's cold and foulmouthed (Brigitte Stahlhelm). Whichever person-ality
she's chipped in, though, is still housed in the same unmodified Nigerian refugee body,
which she also thinks is sexy and about which she is also mistaken. The other girls don't
associate with her very much. They're sure she lifts bills out of their bags in the dressing
room, and they don't like the way she cuts in on their customers when they have to go up to
dance. Someday the cops are going to find Janelle in a dark doorway with her face pulped
and half the bones in her body broken. In the meantime, she flounces in time to the ragged
screams of keypads and guitar synths.
I was bored as hell. I knocked back the rest of my drink. Chiri looked at me and raised her
eyebrows. "No thanks, Chiri," I said. "I got to go."
Indihar leaned over and kissed me on the cheek? "Well, don't be a stranger now that you're
a fascist swine cop."
"Right," I said. I got up from my stool.
"Say hello to Papa for me," said Chiri.
"What makes you think I'm going there?"
She gave me her filed-tooth grin. "Time for good boys and girls to check in at the old
kibanda."
"Yeah, well," I said. I left the rest of my change for her hungry register and went back outside.
I walked down the Street to the arched eastern gate. Beyond the Budayeen, along the broad
Boulevard il-Jameel, a few taxis waited for fares. I saw my old friend, Bill, and climbed into
the backseat of his cab. "Take me to Papa's, Bill," I said.
"Yeah? You talk like you know me. I know you from somewhere?"
Bill didn't recognize me because he's permanently fried. Instead of skull wiring or cosmetic
bodmods, he's got a large sac where one of his lungs used to be, dripping out constant,
measured doses of light-speed hallucinogen into his bloodstream. Bill has occasional
moments of lucid-ity, but he's learned to ignore them, or at least to keep functioning until they
go away and he's seeing purple lizards again. I've tried the drug he's got pumping through
him day and night; it's called RPM, and even though I'm pretty experienced with drugs of all
nations, I never want to take that stuff again. Bill, on the other hand, swears that it has
opened his eyes to the hidden nature of the real world. I guess so; he can see fire demons
and I can't. The only problem with the drug—and Bill will be the first to admit this—is that he
can't remember a god-damn thing from one minute to the next.
So it wasn't surprising that he didn't recognize me. I've had to go through the same
conversation with him a hundred times. "It's me, Bill. Marid. I want you to take me to
Friedlander Bey's."
He squinted back at me. "Can't say I ever seen you before, buddy."
"Well, you have. Lots of times."
"That's easy for you to say," he muttered. He jabbed the ignition and pulled away from the
curb. We were headed in the wrong direction. "Where did you say you wanted to go?" he
asked.
"Papa's."
"Yeah, you right. I got this afrit sitting up here with me today, and he's been tossing hot coals
in my lap all afternoon. It's a big distraction. I can't do nothing about it, though. You can't
punch out an afrit. They like to mess with your head like that. I'm thinking of getting some holy
water from Lourdes. Maybe that would spook 'em. Where the hell is Lourdes, anyway?"
"The Caliphate of Gascony," I said. "Hell of a long drive. They do mail orders?" I told him I
didn't have the slightest idea, and sat back against the upholstery. I watched the landscape
slash by— Bill's driving is as crazy as he is—and I thought about what I was going to say to
Friedlander Bey. I wondered how I should approach him about what I'd found out, what my
mother had told me, and what I suspected. I decided to wait. There was a good chance that
the information in the computers linking me to Papa had been planted there, a devious
means of winning my cooperation. In the past, I'd carefully avoided any direct transactions
with Papa, be-cause taking his coin for any reason meant that he owned you forever. But
when he paid for my cranial implants, he made an investment that I'd be paying back for the
rest of my life. I didn't want to be working for him, but there was no escape. Not yet. I
maintained the hope that I'd find a way to buy my way out, or coerce him into giving me my
freedom. In the meantime, it pleased him to pile responsi-bility on my unwilling shoulders,
and gift me with ever-larger rewards.
Bill pulled through the gate in the high white wall around Friedlander Bey's estate and drove
up the long, curved driveway. He came to a stop at the foot of the wide marble stairs. Papa's
butler opened the polished front door and stood waiting for me. I paid the fare and slipped
Bill an extra ten kiam. His lunatic eyes narrowed and he glanced from the money to me.
"What's this?" he asked suspiciously.
"It's a tip. You're supposed to keep that." "What's it for?" "For your excellent driving." "You
ain't trying to buy me off, are you?" I sighed. "No. I admire the way you steer with all those
red-hot charcoals in your drawers. I know I couldn't do it-He shrugged. "It's a gift," he said
simply. "So's the ten kiam."
His eyes widened again. "Oh," he said, smiling, "now I get it!"
"Sure you do. See you around, Bill."
"See ya, buddy." He gunned the cab and the tires spat gravel. I turned and went up the
stairs.
"Good afternoon, yaa Sidi," said the butler.
"Hello, Youssef. I'd like to see Friedlander Bey."
"Yes, of course. It's good to have you home, sir."
"Yeah, thanks." We walked along a thickly carpeted corridor toward Papa's offices. The air
was cool and dry, and I felt the gentle kiss of many fans. There was the fragrance of incense
on the air, subtle and inviting. The light was muted through screens made of narrow strips of
wood. From somewhere I heard the liquid trickle of fall-ing water, a fountain splashing in one
of the courtyards.
Before we got to the waiting room, a tall, well-dressed woman crossed the hall and went up
a flight of stairs. She gave me a brief, modest smile and then turned her head away. She
had hair as black and glossy as obsidian, gath-ered tightly into a chignon. Her hands were
very pale, her fingers long and tapered and graceful. I got just a quick impression, yet I knew
this woman had style and intelli-gence; but I felt also that she could be menacing and hard, if
she needed.
"Who was that, Youssef?" I asked.
He turned to me and frowned. "That is Umm Saad." I knew immediately that he disapproved
of her. I trusted Youssefs judgment, so my first intuition about her was most likely correct.
I took a seat in the outer office and killed time by finding faces in the pattern of cracks in the
ceiling. After a while, one of Papa's two huge bodyguards opened the communicating door.
I call the big men the Stones That Speak. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. "Come
in," said the Stone. Those guys don't waste breath.
I went into Friedlander Bey's office. The man was about two hundred years old, but he'd had
a lot of body modifications and transplants. He was reclining on cush-ions and drinking
strong coffee from a golden cup. He smiled when I came in. "My eyes live again, seeing you
O my nephew," he said. I could tell that he was genuinely pleased.
"My days apart from you have been filled with regret, O Shaykh," I said. He motioned, and I
seated myself be-side him. He reached forward to tip coffee from the golden pot into my
cup. I took a sip and said, "May your table always be prosperous."
"May Allah grant you health," he said.
"I pray that you are feeling well, O Shaykh."
He reached out and grasped my hand. "I am as fit and strong as a sixty-year-old, but there is
a weariness that I cannot overcome, my nephew."
"Then perhaps your physician—"
"It is a weariness of the soul," he said. "It is my appe-tite and ambition that are dying. I keep
going now only because the idea of suicide is abhorrent."
"Perhaps in the future, science will restore you."
"How, my son? By grafting a new zest for living onto my exhausted spirit?"
"The technique already exists," I told him. "You could have a moddy and daddy implant like
mine."
He shook his head ruefully. "Allah would send me to Hell if I did that." He didn't seem to mind
if / went to Hell. He waved aside further speculation. "Tell me of your journey."
Here it was, but I wasn't ready. I still didn't know how to ask him if he figured in my family
tree, so I stalled. "First I must hear all that happened while I was gone, O Shaykh. I saw a
woman in the corridor. I've never seen a woman in your house before. May I ask you who
she is?"
Papa's face darkened. He paused a moment, framing his reply. "She is a fraud and an
impostor, and she is beginning to cause me great distress."
"Then you must send her away," I said.
"Yes," he said. His expression turned stonelike. I saw now not a ruler of a great business
empire, not the control-ler of all vice and illicit activity in the city, but something more terrible.
Friedlander Bey might truly have been the son of many kings, because he wore the cloak of
power and command as if he'd been born to it. "I must ask you this question, O my nephew:
Do you honor me enough to fill your lungs again with fire?"
I blinked. I thought I knew what he was talking about. "Did I not prove myself just a few
months ago, O Shaykh?"
He waved a hand, just that easily making nothing of the pain and horror I'd suffered. "You
were defending yourself from danger then," he said. He turned and put
one old, clawlike hand on my knee. "I need you now to defend me from danger. I wish you to
learn everything you can about this woman, and then I want you to destroy her. And her child
also. I must know if I have your abso-lute loyalty."
His eyes were burning. I had seen this side of him before. I sat beside a man who was
gripped more and more by madness. I took my coffee cup with a trembling hand and drank
deeply. Until I finished swallowing, I wouldn't have to give him an answer.
Before I had my skull amped, I used to have an alarm clock. In the morning when it went off, I
liked to '— 'stay in bed a little while longer, bleary and yawning.
Maybe I'd get up and maybe I wouldn't. Now, though, I don't have a choice. I chip in an
add-on the night before, and when that daddy decides it's time, my eyes snap open and I'm
awake. It's an abrupt transition and it always leaves me startled. And there's no way in hell
that chip will let me fall back asleep. I hate it a lot.
On Sunday morning I woke up promptly at eight o'clock. There was a black man I'd never
seen before standing beside my bed. I thought about that for a mo-ment. He was big, much
taller than me and well built without going overboard about it. A lot of the blacks you see in
the city are like Janelle, refugees from some famine-stricken, arid African wasteland. This
guy, though, looked like he'd never missed a sensible, well-balanced meal in his life. His
face was long and serious, and his expression seemed to be set in a permanent glower. His
stern brown eyes and shaven head added to his grim demeanor. "Who are you?" I asked. I
didn't get out from under the covers yet.
"Good morning, yaa Sidi, "he said. He had a soft, low-pitched voice with a touch of
huskiness. "My name is Kmuzu."
"That's a start," I said. "Now what in the name of Allah are you doing here?"
"I am your slave."
"The hell you are." I like to think of myself as the defender of the downtrodden and all that. I
get prickly at the idea of slavery, an attitude that runs counter to the popular opinion among
my friends and neighbors.
"The master of the house ordered me to see to your needs. He thought I'd be the perfect
servant for you, yaa Sidi, because my name means 'medicine' in Ngoni."
In Arabic, my own name means "sickness." Fried-lander Bey knew, of course, that my
mother had named me Marid in the superstitious hope that my life would be free of illness. "I
don't mind having a valet," I said, "but I'm not gonna keep a slave." Kmuzu shrugged.
Whether or not I wanted to use the word, he knew he was still somebody's slave, mine or
Papa's.
"The master of the house briefed me in great detail about your needs," he said. His eyes
narrowed. "He prom-ised me emancipation if I will embrace Islam, but I cannot abandon the
faith of my father. I think you should know that I'm a devout Christian." I took that to mean that
my new servant wholeheartedly disapproved of almost every-thing I might say or do.
"We'll try to be friends anyway," I said. I sat up and swung my legs out of the bed. I popped
out the sleep control and put it in the rack of daddies I keep on the nightstand. In the old
days, I spent a lot of time in the morning scratching and yawning and rubbing my scalp; but
now when I wake up, I'm denied even those small pleasures.
"Do you truly need that device?" asked Kmuzu.
"My body has sort of gotten out of the habit of sleep-ing and waking up on its own."
He shook his head. "It is a simple enough problem to solve, yaa Sidi. If you just stay awake
long enough, you will fall asleep."
I saw that if I expected to have any peace, I was going to have to murder this man, and soon.
"You don't under-stand. The problem is that after three days and nights without sleep, when I
do doze off at last I have bizarre dreams, really gruesome ones. Why should I put myself
through all that, when I can just reach for pills or software instead?"
"The master of the house instructed me to limit your drug use."
I was starting to get aggravated. "Fine," I said, "you can just fucking try." The drug situation
was probably behind Friedlander Bey's "gift" of this slave. I'd made a bad mistake on my
very first morning chez Papa: I showed
up late for breakfast with a butaqualide hangover. I was moderately dysfunctional for a
couple of hours, and that earned me his disapproval. So that first afternoon I passed by
Laila's modshop on Fourth Street in the Budayeen and invested in the sleep control.
My preference is still a half-dozen beauties, but these days I'm always looking over my
shoulder for Papa's spies. He's got a million of 'em. Let me make it clear: You don't want his
disapproval. He never forgets these things. If he needs to, he hires other people to carry his
grudges for him.
The advantages of the situation, however, are many. Take the bed, for instance. I've never
had a bed before, ' ist a mattress thrown on the floor in the corner of a room. Now I can kick
dirty socks and underwear under some-thing, and if something falls on the floor and gets lost
I know just where it'll be, although I won't be able to reach it. I still fall out of the damn bed a
couple of times a week, but because of the sleep control, I don't wake up. I just lie there in a
heap on the floor until morning.
So I got out of bed on this Sunday morning, took a hot shower, washed my hair, trimmed my
beard, and brushed my teeth. I'm supposed to be at my desk in the police station by nine
o'clock, but one of the ways I assert my independence is by ignoring the time. I didn't hurry
get-ting dressed. I chose a pair of khaki trousers, a pale blue shirt, a dark blue tie, and a
white linen jacket. All the civilian employees in the copshop dress like that, and I'm glad.
Arab dress reminds me too much of the life I left behind when I came to the city.
"So you've been planted here to snoop on me," I said while I tried to get the ends of my
necktie to come out even.
"I am here to be your friend, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.
I smiled at that. Before I came to live in Friedlander Bey's palace, I was lonely a lot. I lived in
a bare one-room flat with nothing but my pillcase for company. I had some friends, of course,
but not the kind who dropped over all the time because they missed me so much. There was
Yasmin, whom I suppose I loved a little. She spent the night with me occasionally, but now
she looked the other way when we bumped into each other. I think she held it against me
that I've killed a few people. "What if I beat you?" I asked Kmuzu. "Would you still be my
friend?"
I was trying to be sarcastic, but it was definitely the wrong thing to say. "I would make you
stop," said Kmuzu, and his voice was as cold as any I've ever heard.
I think my jaw dropped. "I didn't mean that, you know," I said. Kmuzu gave a slight nod of his
head, and the tension passed. "Help me with this, will you? I think the necktie is winning."
Kmuzu's expression softened a little, and he seemed glad to perform this little service for
me. "It is fine now," he said when he finished. "I will get your breakfast."
"I don't eat breakfast."
"Yaa Sidi, the master of the house directed me to make sure that you eat breakfast from
now on. He be-lieves that breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
Allah save me from nutrition fascists! "If I eat in the morning, I feel like a lump of lead for
hours."
It didn't make any difference to Kmuzu what I thought. "I will get your breakfast," he said.
"Don't you have to go to church or something?"
He looked at me calmly. "I have already been to worship," he said. "Now I will get your
breakfast." I'm sure he'd note every calorie I took in and file a report with Friedlander Bey. It
was just another example of how much influence Papa exerted.
I may have felt a little like a prisoner, but I'd certainly been given compensations. I had a
spacious suite in the west wing of Friedlander Bey's great house, on the second floor near
Papa's own private quarters. My closet was filled with many suits of clothes in different styles
and fashions—Western, Arab, casual, formal. Papa gave me a lot of sophisticated
high-tech hardware, from a new Chhindwara constrained-AI data deck to an Esmeraldas
holo system with Libertad screens and a Ruy Challenger argon solipsizer. I never worried
about money. Once a week, one of the Stones That Speak left a fat envelope stuffed with
cash on my desk.
All in all, my life had changed so much that my days of poverty and insecurity seemed like a
thirty-year night-mare. Today I'm well fed, well dressed, and well liked by the right people,
and all it's cost me is what you'd expect my self-respect and the approval of most of my
friends. Kmuzu let me know that breakfast was ready. "Bis-millah, "I murmured as I sat
down: in the name of God. I ate some eggs and bread fried in butter, and swallowed a cup
of strong coffee.
"Would you like anything more, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.
"No, thank you." I was staring at the far wall, thinking about freedom. I wondered if there was
some way I could buy my way out of the police-liaison job. Not with money, anyway, I was
sure of that. I don't think it's possible to bribe Papa with money: Still, if I paid very close
attention, I just might find some other means of leverage. Inshallah.
"Then shall I go downstairs and bring the car around?" Kmuzu asked. I blinked and realized
that I had to get going. I didn't have Friedlander Bey's long black limousine at my disposal,
but he'd given me a comfortable new electric automobile to use. After all, I was his official
representative among the guardians of justice.
Kmuzu, of course, would be my driver now. It oc-curred to me that I'd have to be very clever
to go any-where without him. "Yes, I'll be down in a minute," I said.
I ran a hand through my hair, which was getting long again. Before I left the house, I put a
rack of moddies and daddies in my briefcase. It was impossible to predict what sort of
personality I'd need to have when I got to work, or which particular talents and abilities. It was
best just to take everything I had and be prepared.
I stood on the marble stairs and waited for Kmuzu. It was the month of Rabi al-Awwal, and a
warm drizzle was falling from a gray sky. Although Papa's estate was carved out of a
crowded neighborhood in the heart of the city, I could almost pretend that I was in some
quiet garden oasis, far from urban grime and noise. I was surrounded by a green lushness
that had been coaxed into existence solely to soothe the spirit of one weary old man. I heard
the quiet, peaceful trickling of cool fountains, and some energetic birds warbled nearby from
the carefully tended fruit trees. On the still air drifted a heavy, sweet perfume of exotic
flowers. I pretended that none of this could se-duce me.
Then I got into the cream-colored Westphalian sedan and rode out through the guarded
gate. Beyond the wall I was thrown suddenly into the bustle and clamor of the city, and with a
shock I realized how sorry I was to leave the serenity of Papa's house. It occurred to me that
in time I could come to be like him.
Kmuzu let me out of the car on Walid al-Akbar Street, at the station house that oversaw the
affairs of the Budayeen. He told me that he'd be back to drive me home promptly at
four-thirty. I had a feeling that he was one of those people who was never late. I stood on the
sidewalk and watched as he drove away.
There was always a crowd of young children outside the station house. I don't know if they
were hoping to see some shackled criminal dragged in, or waiting for their own parents to
be released from custody, or just loitering in the hopes of begging loose change. I'd been
one of them myself not so very long ago in Algiers, and it didn't hurt me any to throw a few
kiam into the air and watch them scramble for it. I reached into my pocket and grabbed a
clutch of coins. The older, bigger kids caught the easy money, and the smaller ones clung to
my legs and wailed "Baksheeshf” Every day it was a challenge to shake my young
passengers loose before I got to the revolving door.
I had a desk in a small cubicle on the third floor of the station house. My cubicle was
separated from its neigh-bors by pale green plasterboard walls only a little taller than I was.
There was always a sour smell in the air, a mixture of stale sweat, tobacco smoke, and
disinfectant. Above my desk was a shelf that held plastic boxes filled with dated files on
cobalt-alloy cell-memories. On the floor was a big cardboard box crammed with bound
print-outs. I had a grimy Annamese data deck on my desk that gave me trouble-free
operation on two out of every three jobs. Of course, my work wasn't very important, not
ac-cording to Lieutenant Hajjar. We both knew I was there just to keep an eye on things for
Friedlander Bey. It amounted to Papa having his own private police precinct devoted to
protecting his interests in the Budayeen.
Hajjar came into my cubicle and dropped another heavy box on my desk. He was a
Jordanian who'd had a lengthy arrest record of his own before he came to the city. I suppose
he'd been an athlete ten years ago, but he hadn't stayed in shape. He had thinning brown
hair and lately he'd tried to grow a beard. It looked terrible, like the skin of a kiwi fruit. He
looked like a mother's bad dream of a drug dealer, which is what he was when he wasn't
administering the affairs of the nearby walled quar-ter.
"How you doin', Audran?" he said.
"Okay," I said. "What's all this?"
"Found something useful for you to do." Hajjar was about two years younger than me, and it
gave him a kick to boss me around.
I looked in the box. There were a couple of hundred blue cobalt-alloy plates. It looked like
another really te-dious job. "You want me to sort these?"
"I want you to log 'em all into the daily record."
I swore under my breath. Every cop carries an elec-tronic log book to make notes on the
day's tour: where he went, what he saw, what he said, what he did. At the end of the day, he
turns in the book's cell-memory plate to his sergeant. Now Hajjar wanted me to collate all the
plates from the station's roster. "This isn't the kind of work Papa had in mind for me," I said.
"What the hell. You got any complaints, take 'em to Friedlander Bey. In the meantime, do
what I tell you."
"Yeah, you right," I said. I glared at Hajjar's back as he walked out.
"By the way," he said, turning toward me again, "I got someone for you to meet later. It may
be a nice sur-prise."
I doubted that. "Uh huh," I said.
"Yeah, well, get movin' on those plates. I want 'em finished by lunchtime."
I turned back to my desk, shaking my head. Hajjar annoyed the hell out of me. What was
worse, he knew it. I didn't like giving him the satisfaction of seeing me irked.
The funny thing was that Hajjar was in Friedlander Bey's pocket too, but he liked to pretend
he was still his own man. Since he'd been promoted and given com-mand, though, Hajjar
had gone through some startling changes. He'd begun to take his work seriously, and he'd
cut back on his intrigues and profiteering schemes. It wasn't that he'd suddenly discovered a
sense of honor; he just realized he'd have to work his tail off to keep from getting fired as a
crook and an incompetent.
I selected a productivity moddy from my rack and chipped it onto my posterior plug. The rear
implant func-tions the same as everybody else's. It lets me chip in a moddy and six daddies.
The anterior plug, however, is my own little claim to fame. This is the one that taps into my
hypothalamus and lets me chip in my special daddies. As far as I know, no one else has
ever been given a second implant. I'm glad I hadn't known that Friedlander Bey told my
doctors to try something experimental and in-sanely dangerous. I guess he didn't want me to
worry. Now that the frightening part is over, though, I'm glad I went through it. It's made me a
more productive member of society and all that.
When I had boring police work to do, which was almost every day, I chipped in an orange
moddy that Hajjar had given me. It had a label that said it was manu-factured in Helvetia.
The Swiss, I suppose, have a high regard for efficiency. Their moddy could take the most
energetic, inspired person in the world and transform him instantly into a drudge. Not into a
stupid drudge, like what the Half-Hajj's dumbing-down hardware did to me, but into a
mindless worker who isn't aware enough to be distracted before the whole assignment is in
the Out box. It's the greatest gift to the office menial since conjugal coffee breaks.
I sighed and took the moddy, then reached up and chipped it in.
The immediate sensation was as if the whole world had lurched and then caught its balance.
There was an odd, metallic taste in Audran 's mouth and a high-pitched ringing in his ears.
He felt a touch of nausea, but he tried to ignore it because it wouldn 't go away until he
popped the moddy out. The moddy had trimmed down his per-sonality like the wick of a
lamp, until there was only a vague and ineffectual vestige of his true self left.
Audran wasn 't conscious enough even to be resentful. He remembered only that he had
work to do, and he pulled a double handful of cobalt-alloy plates out of the box. He slotted six
of them into the adit ports beneath the battered data deck's comp screen. Audran touched
the control pad and said, "Copy ports one, two, three, four, five, six." Then he stared blankly
while the deck recorded the contents of the plates. When the run was finished, he removed
the plates, stacked them on one side of the desk, and loaded in six more. He barely noticed
the morning pass as he logged in the records.
"Audran." Someone was saying his name.
He stopped what he was doing and glanced over his shoulder. Lieutenant Hajjar and a
uniformed patrolman were standing in the entrance to his cubicle. Audran turned slowly back
to the data deck. He reached into the box, but it was empty.
"Unplug that goddamn thing."
Audran faced Hajjar again and nodded. It was time to pop the moddy.
There was a dizzy swirl of disorientation, and then I was sitting at my desk, staring stupidly at
the Helvetian moddy in my hand. "Jeez," I murmured. It was a relief to be fully conscious
again.
"Tell you a secret about Audran," Hajjar said to the cop. "We didn't hire him because of his
wonderful quali-ties. He really don't have any. But he makes a great spin-dle for hardware.
Audran's just a moddy's way of gettin' its daily workout." The cop smiled.
"Hey, you gave me this goddamn moddy in the first place," I said.
Hajjar shrugged. "Audran, this is Officer Shaknahyi."
"Where you at?" I said.
"All right," said the cop.
"You got to watch out for Audran," Hajjar said. "He's got one of those addictives
personalities. He used to make a big deal out of not havin" his brain wired. Now you never
see him without some kind of moddy stuck in his head."
That shocked me. I hadn't realized I'd been using my moddies so much. I was surprised
anyone else had no-ticed.
"Try to overlook his frailties, Jirji, 'cause you and him are gonna be workin' together."
Shaknahyi gave him a sharp look. I did the same. "What do you mean, 'working together'?"
said the cop.
"I mean what I said. I got a little assignment for you two. You're gonna be workin' very closely
for a while. "You taking me off the street?" asked Shaknahyi.
Hajjar shook his head. "I never said that. I'm pairin' Audran with you on patrol."
Shaknahyi was so outraged, I thought he was going to split down the middle. "Shaitan take
my kids first!" he said. "You think you're teaming me up with a guy with no training and no
experience, you're goddamn crazy!"
I didn't like the idea of going out on the street. I d idn't want to make myself a target for every
loon in the Budayeen who owned a cheap needle gun. "I'm supposed to stay here in the
station house," I said. "Friedlander Bey never said anything about real cop work."
"Be good for you, Audran," said Hajjar. "You can ride around and see all your old buddies
again. They'll be im-pressed when you flash your badge at them."
"They'll hate my guts," I said.
"You're both overlooking one small detail," said Shaknahyi. "As my partner, he's supposed
to guard my back every time we walk into some dangerous situation. To be honest, I don't
have a lick of faith in him. You can't expect me to work with a partner I don't trust."
"I don't blame you," said Hajjar. He looked amused by the cop's opinion of me. My first'
impression of Shaknahyi wasn't so good, either. He didn't have his brain wired, and that
meant he was one of two kinds of cop: Either he was a strict Muslim, or else he was one of
those guys who thought his own naked, unaugmented brain was more than a match for the
evildoers. That's the way I used to be, but I learned better. Either way, I wouldn't get along
with him.
"And I don't want the responsibility of watching his back," I said. "I don't need that kind of
pressure."
Hajjar patted the air in a kind of soothing motion. "Well, forget about that. You're not gonna
be chasin' down bad guys on the street. You're gonna be conductin' an unofficial
investigation."
"What kind of investigation?" asked Shaknahyi suspi-ciously.
Hajjar waved a dark green cobalt-alloy plate. "Got a big file here on Reda Abu Adil. I want
you two to learn it backwards and forwards. Then you're gonna meet the man and stick to
him like shadows." "His name's come up a couple of times at Papa's house," I said. "Who is
he?"
"He's Friedlander Bey's oldest rival." Hajjar leaned against the pale green wall. "They got a
competition goes back a hundred years."
"I know about him," said the cop gruffly.
"Audran only knows about small-time thugs in the Budayeen. Abu Adil don't come near the
Budayeen. Keeps his interests far away from Papa's. Carved out a little kingdom for himself
on the north and west sides of town. Even so, I got a request from Friedlander Bey to put
him under surveillance."
"You're doing this just because Friedlander Bey asked you to?" asked Shaknahyi.
"You bet your ass. He's got a suspicion that Abu Adil is thinkin' about breakin' their truce.
Papa wants to be ready."
Well, until I found my leverage with Friedlander Bey, I was his puppet. I had to do whatever
he and Hajjar told me to do.
Shaknahyi, however, didn't want any part of it, "I wanted to be a cop because I thought I
could help peo-ple," he said. "I don't make a lot of money, I don't get enough sleep, and
every day I mix into one goddamn crisis after another. I never know when somebody's gonna
pull a gun on me and use it. I do it because I believe I can make a difference. I didn't sign on
to be some rich bastard's personal spy. How long has this outfit been for sale, any-way?" He
glowered at Hajjar until the lieutenant had to look away.
"Listen," I said to Shaknahyi, "what's your problem with me?"
"You're not a cop, for one thing," he said. "You're worse than a rookie. You'll hang back and
let some creep nail me, or else you'll get itchy and shoot a little old lady. I don't want to be
teamed with somebody unless I think I can count on him."
I nodded. "Yeah, you right, but I can wear a moddy. I've seen plenty of rookies wearing
police officer moddies to help them through the routines."
Shaknahyi threw up his hands. "He just makes it worse," he muttered.
"I said not to worry about a rough time on the street," said Hajjar. "This is just an
investigation. Mostly desk-job stuff. I don't know what's got you so spooked, Jirji."
Shaknahyi rubbed his forehead and sighed. "All right, all right. I just wanted to have my
objection on the rec-ord."
"Okay," said Hajjar, "it's been noted. I want to hear regular reports from both of you, 'cause I
got to keep Friedlander Bey happy. That's not as easy as it sounds, either." He tossed the
cell-memory plate to me.
"Want us to start on this right away?" I asked.
Hajjar gave me a wry look. "If you can fit it into your busy social calendar."
"Make a copy for me," said Shaknahyi. "I'll study the file today, and tomorrow we'll take a
ride by Abu Adil's place."
"Fine," I said. I slipped the green plate into my data deck and copied it onto a blank.
"Right," said Shaknahyi, taking the copy and walking out of my cubicle.
"You two didn't hit it off real well," said Hajjar.
"We just have to get the job done," I said. "We don't have to go dancing together."
"Yeah, you right. Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off? Go home and look through
the report. I'm sure you got any questions, Papa can answer them for you."
He left me alone too, and I called Friedlander Bey's house through the data deck. I spoke to
one of the Stones That Speak. "Yeah?" he said bluntly.
"This is Audran. Tell Kmuzu to pick me up at the police station in about twenty minutes."
"Yeah," said the Stone. Then I was listening to a dial tone. The Stones make up in curtness
what they lack in eloquence.
Twenty minutes later on the dot, Kmuzu swung the electric sedan in toward the curb. I got
into the backseat, and he began driving home.
"Kmuzu," I said, "you know anything about a busi-nessman named Reda Abu Adil?"
"A little, yaa Sidi," he said. "What do you wish to know?" He never looked away from the
road.
"Everything, but not right now." I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the seat. If
only Fried-
lander Bey would tell me as much as he told Kmuzu and Lieutenant Hajjar. I hated to think
that Papa still didn't entirely trust me.
"When we get back t the estate," said Kmuzu, "you'll want to talk with Friedlander Bey."
"That's right," I said.
"I warn you that the woman has put him in a surly mood."
Wonderful, I thought. I'd forgotten about the woman. Papa was going to want to know why I
hadn't murdered her yet. I spent the rest of that ride thinking up a plausible excuseand if I'd
known just how difficult things were going to be, I might have had Kmuzu drive me straight
out of the city LJand on to some distant, peaceful place. When I got home—by this time I
was used to thinking of Friedlander Bey's palace as home—it was about four o'clock in the
afternoon. I decided that I could use a nap. After that, I planned to have a brief meeting with
Papa and then go out and spend some time in Chiriga's club. Unfortunately, my slave
Kmuzu had other ideas.
"I will be quite comfortable in the small room," he announced.
"I'm sorry?" I said. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.
"The small room that you use for storage. It will be sufficient for my needs. I will bring a cot."
I looked at him for a moment. "I assumed you'd be sleeping in the servants' wing."
"Yes, I have quarters there, yaa Sidi, but I will be better able to look after you if I have a room
here also."
"I'm not really interested in having you look after me every minute of the day, Kmuzu. I put a
certain value on my privacy."
Kmuzu nodded. "I understand that, but the master of the house directed me—"
I'd heard enough of that. "I don't care what the mas-ter of the house directed you," I shouted.
"Whose slave are you, mine or his?"
Kmuzu didn't answer me. He just stared at me with his big, solemn eyes.
"Yeah, well, never mind," I said. "Go ahead and make yourself at home in the storage room.
Stack up all my stuff and drag in a mattress if you want." I turned away, deeply irritated.
"Friedlander Bey has invited you to <line with him after he speaks to you," said Kmuzu.
"I suppose it doesn't mean anything that I have other plans," I said. All I got was the same
silent stare. Kmuzu was awful good at that.
I went into my bedroom and undressed. Then I took a quick shower and thought about what I
wanted to say to Friedlander Bey. First, I was going to tell him that this slave-spy thing with
Kmuzu was going to have to end pretty goddamn quick. Second, I wanted to let him know
that I wasn't happy about being teamed with Officer Shaknahyi. And third, well, that's when I
realized that I probably didn't have the nerve to mention anything at all about items one and
two.
I got out of the shower and toweled myself dry. Stand-ing under the warm water had made
me feel a lot better and I decided that I didn't need a nap after all. Instead, I stared into a
closet deciding what to wear. Papa liked it when I wore Arab dress. I figured what the hell
and picked a simple maroon gallebeya. I decided that the knitted skullcap of my homeland
wasn't appropriate, and I'm not the turban type. I settled on a plain white keffiya and fixed it in
place with a simple black rope akal. I tied a corded belt around my waist, supporting a
ceremonial dagger Papa'd given me. Also on the belt, pulled around behind my back, was a
holster with my seizure gun. I hid that by wearing an expensive tan-colored cloak over the
gallebeya. I felt I was ready for anything: a feast, a debate, or an attempted assassination.
"Why don't you stay here and get yourself settled in?" I said to Kmuzu, but instead he
followed me down-stairs. I just knew he'd do that. Papa's offices were on the ground floor in
the main part of the house connecting the two wings. When we got there, one of the Stones
That Speak was in the corridor, guarding the door. He glanced at me and nodded; but when
he looked at Kmuzu, his expression changed. His lip curled just a little. That was the most
emotion I'd ever seen from one of the Stones.
"Wait," he said.
"I will go in with my master," said Kmuzu.
The Stone struck him in the chest and shoved him back a step. "Wait," he said.
"It's all right, Kmuzu," I said. I didn't want the two of them wrestling on the floor here outside
Friedlander Bey's office. They could settle their little dominance dis-pute on their own time.
Kmuzu gave me a cool glance, but said nothing. The Stone bowed his head slightly as I went
past him into Papa's waiting room, and then he closed the door behind me. If he and Kmuzu
went at it out in the hall, I'd be at a loss to know what to do. What's the proper etiquette when
your slave is getting beaten up by your boss's slave? Of course, that wasn't giving Kmuzu
the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had a trick or two of his own. Who knows, he might have
been able to handle the Stone That Speaks.
Anyway, Friedlander Bey was in his inner office. He was sitting behind his gigantic desk. He
didn't look well. His elbows were on the desktop, and his head was in his hands. He was
massaging his forehead. He stood up when I came in. "I am pleased," he said. He didn't
sound pleased. He sounded exhausted.
"It's my honor to wish you good evening, O Shaykh," I said. He was wearing an open-necked
white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of baggy gray trousers. He probably wouldn't
even notice the trouble I'd taken to dress conservatively. You can't win, right?
"We will dine soon, my son. In the meantime, sit with me. There are matters that need our
attention."
I sat in a comfortable chair beside his desk. Papa took his seat again and fiddled with some
papers, frowning. I wondered if he was going to talk about the woman, or why he'd decided
to saddle me with Kmuzu. It wasn't my place to question him. He'd begin when he was
ready.
He shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them, sighing. His sparse white hair was
rumpled, and he hadn't shaved that morning. I guessed he had a lot on his mind. I was a little
afraid of what he was going to order me to do this time.
"We must speak," he said. "There is the matter of alms-giving."
Okay, I'll admit it: Of all the possible problems he could have chosen, alms-giving was pretty
low on my list of what I expected to hear. How foolish of me to think he wanted to discuss
something more to the point. Lake mur-der.
"I'm afraid I've had more important things on my mind, O Shaykh," I said.
Friedlander Bey nodded wearily. "No doubt, my son, you truly believe these other things are
more important, but you are wrong. You and I share an existence of luxury and comfort, and
that gives us a responsibility to our brothers."
Jacques, my infidel friend, would've had trouble grasping his precise point. Sure, other
religions are all in favor of charity too. It's just good sense to take care of the poor and
needy, because you never know when you're going to end up poor and needy yourself. The
Muslim attitude goes further, though. Alms-giving is one of the five pillars of the religion, as
fundamental an obligation as the profession of faith, the daily prayer, the fast of Rama-dan,
and the pilgrimage to Mecca.
I gave the same attention to alms-giving that I gave the other duties. That is, I had profound
respect for them in an intellectual sort of way, and I told myself that I'd begin practicing in
earnest real soon now.
"Evidently you've been considering this for some time," I said.
"We have been neglecting our duty to the poor and the wayfarers, and the widows and
orphans among our neighbors."
Some of my friends—my old friends, my former friends—think Papa is nothing but a
murderous monster, but that's not true. He's a shrewd businessman who also maintains
strong ties to the faith that created our culture. I'm sorry if that seems like a contradiction. He
could be harsh, even cruel, at times; but I knew no one else as sincere in his beliefs or as
glad to meet the many obliga-tions of the noble Qur'an.
"What do you wish me to do, O my uncle?"
Friedlander Bey shrugged. "Do I not reward you well for your services?"
"You are unfailingly gracious, O Shaykh," I said.
"Then it would not be a hardship for you to set aside a fifth part of your substance, as is
suggested in the Straight Path. Indeed, I desire to make a gift to you that will swell
your purse and, at the same time, give you a source of income independent of this house."
That caught my attention. Freedom was what I hun-gered for every night as I drifted off to
sleep. It was what I thought of first when I woke in the morning. And the first step toward
freedom was financial independence.
"You are the father of generosity, O Shaykh," I said, "but I am unworthy." Believe me, I was
panting to hear what he was going to say. Proper form, however, required me to pretend
that I couldn't possibly accept his gift.
He raised one thin, trembling hand. "I prefer that my associates have outside sources of
income, sources that they manage themselves and whose profits they need not share with
me."
"That is a wise policy," I said. I've known a lot of Papa's "associates," and I know what kind
of sources they had. I was sure he was about to cut me into some shady vice deal. Not that I
had scruples, you understand. I wouldn't mind getting my drugs wholesale. I've just never had
much of a mind for commerce.
"Until recently the Budayeen was your whole world. You know it well, my son, and you
understand its people. I have a great deal of influence there, and I thought it best to acquire
for you some small commercial concern in that quarter." He extended to me a document
laminated in plastic.
I reached forward and took it from him. "What is this, O Shaykh?" I asked.
"It is a title deed. You are now the owner of the property described upon it. From this day
forward it is your business to operate. It is a profitable enterprise, my nephew. Manage it
well and it will reward you, inshal-lah."
I looked at the deed. "You're—" My voice choked. Papa had bought Chiriga's club and was
giving it to me. I looked up at him. "But—"
He waved his hand at me. "No thanks are necessary," he said. "You are my dutiful son."
"But this is Chiri's place. I can't take her club. What will she do?"
Friedlander Bey shrugged. "Business is business," he said simply.
I just stared at him. He had a remarkable habit of giving me things I would have been
happier without: Kmuzu and a career as a cop, for instance. It wouldn't do any good at all to
refuse. "I'm quite unable to express my thanks," I said in a dull voice. I had only two good
friends left, Saied the Half-Hajj and Chiri. She was really going to hate this. I was already
dreading her reaction.
"Come," said Friedlander Bey, "let us go in to din-ner." He stood up behind his desk and
held out his hand to me. I followed him, still astonished. It wasn't until later that I realized I
hadn't spoken to him about my job with Hajjar or my new assignment to investigate Reda
Abu Adfl. When you're in Papa's presence, you go where he wants to go, you do what he
wants to do, and you talk about what he wants to talk about.
We went to the smaller of the two dining rooms, in the back of the west wing on the ground
floor. This is where Papa and I usually ate when we dined together. Kmuzu fell into step
behind me in the corridor, and the Stone That Speaks followed Friedlander Bey. If this were
a sentimental American holoshow, eventually they'd get into a fight and afterward they'd
become the best of friends. Fat chance.
I stopped at the threshold of the dining room and stared. Umm Saad and her son were
waiting for us inside. She was the first woman I'd ever seen in Friedlander Bey's house, but
even so she'd never been permitted to join us at the table. The boy looked about fifteen
years old, which in the eyes of the faith is the age of maturity. He was old enough to meet the
obligations of prayer and ritual fast-ing, so under other circumstances he might have been
welcome to share our meal. "Kmuzu," I said, "escort the woman back to her apartment."
Friedlander Bey put a hand on my arm. "I thank you, my son, but I've invited her to meet with
us."
I looked at him, my mouth open, but no intelligent reply occurred to me. If Papa wanted to
initiate major revolutions in attitude and behavior at this late date, that was his right. I closed
my mouth and nodded.
"Umm Saad will have her dinner in her apartment after our discussion," Friedlander Bey
said, giving her a stern look. "Her son may then retire with her or remain with the men, as he
wishes."
Umm Saad looked impatient. "I suppose I must be grateful for whatever time you can spare
me," she said.
Papa went to his chair, and the Stone assisted him. Kmuzu showed me to my seat across
the table from Fried-lander Bey. Umm Saad sat on his left, and her son sat on Papa's right.
"Marid," said Papa, "have you met the young man?"
"No," I said. I hadn't even seen him before. He and his mother were keeping a very low
profile in that house. The boy was tall for his age, but slender and melancholy. His skin had
an unnatural yellowish tint, and the whites of his eyes were discolored. He looked unhealthy.
He was dressed in a dark blue gallebeya with a geometric print, and he wore the turban of a
young shaykh—not a tribal leader, but the honorary turban of a youth who has com-mitted
the entire Qur'an to memory.
"Yaa Sidi, "said the woman, "may I present to you my handsome son, Saad ben Salah?"
"May your honor be increased, sir," said the boy.
I raised my eyebrows. At least the kid had manners. "Allah be gracious to you," I said.
"Umm Saad," said Friedlander Bey in a gruff voice, "you have come into my house and
made extravagant claims. My patience is at an end. Out of respect for the way of hospitality I
have suffered your presence, but now my conscience is clear. I demand that you trouble me
no more. You must be out of my house by the call to prayer tomorrow morning. I will instruct
my servants to give you any assistance you require."
Umm Saad gave him a little smile, as if she found his anger amusing. "I don't believe you've
given sufficient thought to our problem. And you've made no provision for the future of your
grandson." She covered Saad's hand with her own.
That was like a slap across the face. She was claiming to be Friedlander Bey's daughter or
daughter-in-law. It explained why he wanted me to get rid of her, instead of doing it himself.
He looked at me. "My nephew," he said, "this woman is not my daughter, and the boy is no
kin of mine. This is not the first time a stranger has come to my door claiming blood ties, in
the hope of stealing some of my hard-won fortune." Jeez, I should have taken care of her
when he first asked me, before he dragged me into all this intrigue. Someday I'm going to
learn to deal with things before they get too complicated. I don't mean that I really would have
murdered her, but I might have had a chance to cajole or threaten or bribe her to leave us in
peace. I could tell that it was too late now. She wasn't going to accept a settlement; she
wanted the ball of wax whole, without any little chunks missing.
"You are certain, O Shaykh?" I said. "That she's not your daughter, I mean?"
For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. Then in a tightly controlled voice he said, "I
swear it to you upon the life of the Messenger of God, may blessings be upon him and
peace."
That was good enough for me. Friedlander Bey isn't above a little manipulation if it furthers
his purposes, but he doesn't swear false oaths. We get along so well partly because he
doesn't lie and I don't lie. I looked at Umm Saad. "What proof do you have of your claim?" I
said.
Her eyes grew wider. "Proof?" she cried. "Do I need proof to embrace my own father? What
proof do you have of your father's identity?"
She couldn't have known what a touchy subject that was. I ignored the remark. "Papa—" I
stopped myself. "The master of the house has shown you courtesy and kindness. Now he
properly requests that you bring your visit to an end. As he said, you may have the help of
any of the servants of the house in your departure." I turned to the Stone That Speaks, and
his head nodded once. He'd make sure that Umm Saad and her son would be out on the
doorstep by the last syllable of the muezzin's morning call.
"Then we have preparations to make," she said, standing. "Come, Saad." And the two of
them left the small dining room with as much dignity as if it were their own palace and they
the aggrieved party.
Friedlander Bey's hands were pressed flat on the ta-ble in front of him. His knuckles were
white. He took two or three deep, deliberate breaths. "What do you propose to do, to end
this annoyance?" he said.
I looked up, from Kmuzu to the Stone That Speaks. Neither slave seemed to show the least
interest in the   matter. "Let me understand something first, O Shaykh," I said. "You want to
be rid of her and her son. Is it essential that she die? What if I take another, less violent way
to discourage her?"
"You saw her and heard her words. Nothing short of violence will bring her scheme to an
end. And further— only her death will discourage other leeches from trying the same
strategy. Why do you hesitate, my son? The answer is simple and effective. You've killed
before. Kill-ing again should not be so difficult. You need not even make it seem accidental.
Sergeant Hajjar will understand. He will not proceed with an investigation."
"Hajjar is a lieutenant now," I said.
Papa waved impatiently. "Yes, of course."
"You think Hajjar will overlook a homicide?" Hajjar was bought off, but that didn't mean he'd
sit still while I made him look like a fool. I could get away with a lot now, but only if I was
careful to preserve Hajjar's public image.
The old man's brow creased. "My son," he said slowly so I wouldn't misunderstand, "if
Lieutenant Hajjar balks, he too can be removed. Perhaps you will have better luck with his
successor. You can continue this process until the office is filled at last with a police
supervisor of sufficient imagination and wit."
"Allah guide you and me," I murmured. Friedlander Bey was pretty damn casual these days
about off-bumping as a solution to life's little setbacks. I was struck again by the fact that
Papa himself was in no rush to pull any triggers himself. He had learned at an early age to
dele-gate responsibility. And I had become his favorite dele-gatee.
"Dinner?" he asked.
I'd lost my appetite. "I pray that you'll forgive me," I said. "I have a lot of planning to do.
Maybe after your meal, you'll answer some questions. I'd like to hear what you know about
Reda Abu Adil."
Friedlander Bey spread his hands. "I don't imagine that I know much more than you," he
said.
Now, hadn't Papa twisted Hajjar's arm to start an official investigation? So why was he
playing dumb now? Or was this just another test? How many goddamn tests did I have to
pass?
Or maybe—and this made it all real interesting— maybe Hajjar's curiosity about Abu Adil
didn't come from Papa, after all. Maybe Hajjar had sold himself more than once: to
Friedlander Bey, and also to the second-highest bidder, and to the third-highest, and to the
fourth . . .
I remembered when I was a hot-blooded fifteen-year-old. I promised my girlfriend, Nafissa,
that I wouldn't even look at another girl. And I made the same pledge to Fayza, whose tits
were bigger. And to Hanuna, whose father worked in the brewery. Everything was just fine
until Nafissa found out about Hanuna, and Fayza's father found out about both of the others.
The girls would have cut my balls off and scratched out my eyes. Instead, I slipped out of
Algiers while the enemy slept, and so began 1 the odyssey that brought me to this city.
That's a dead, dry story and of little relevance here. I'm just suggesting how much trouble
Hajjar was looking at if Friedlander Bey and Reda Abu Adil ever caught on to his two-timing.
"Isn't Abu Adil your chief competitor?" I asked.
"The gentleman may think we compete. I do not think that we are in conflict in any way. Allah
grants Abu Adil the right to sell his beaten brass where I am selling my beaten brass. If
someone chooses to buy from Abu Adil rather than from me, then both customer and
merchant have my blessing. I will get my livelihood from Allah, and nothing Abu Adil can do
will help or hinder me."
I thought of the vast sums of money that passed through Friedlander Bey's house, some of it
ending up in fat envelopes on my own desk. I was confident that none of it derived from the
sale of beaten brass. But it made a pleasant euphemism; I let it go.
"According to Lieutenant Hajjar," I said, "you think Abu Adil is planning to put you out of
business alto-gether."
"Only the Gatherer of Nations shall do that, my son." Papa gave me a fond look. "But I am
pleased by your concern. You needn't worry about Abu Adil."
"I can use my position down at the copshop to find out what he's up to."
He stood up and ran a hand through his white hair. "If you wish. If it will ease your mind."
Kmuzu pulled my chair away from the table and I stood up also. "My uncle," I said, "I beg you
to excuse me.
May your table be pleasant to you. I wish you a blessed meal."
Frieollander Bey came to me and kissed me on each cheek. "Go in safety, my darling," he
said. "I am most pleased with you."
As I left the dining room, I turned to see Papa sitting once again in his chair. There was a
grim look on the old man's face, and the Stone That Speaks was bending low to hear
something Papa was saying. I wondered just what Friedlander Bey shared with his slave,
but not yet with me.
"You've got to finish moving in, don't you?" I said to Kmu7u as we walked back to my
apartment.
"I will bring a mattress, yaa Sidi. That will be enough for tonight."
"Good. I have some work to do on the data deck."
"The report on Reda Abu Adil?"
I looked at him sharply. "Yes," I said, "that's right."
"Perhaps I can help you get a clearer picture of the man and his motives."
"How is it that you know so much about him, Kmuzu?" I asked.
"When I was first brought to the city, I was employed as a bodyguard for one of Abu Adil's
wives."
I thought that information was remarkable. Consider: I begin an investigation of a total
stranger, and my brand-new slave turns out to have once worked for that same man. This
wasn't a coincidence, I could feel it. I had faith that it'd all fit together eventually. I just hoped
I'd still be alive and healthy when it did.
I paused outside the door to my suite. "Go get your bedding and your belongings," I told
Kmuzu. "I'll be go-ing through the file on Abu Adil. Don't worry about dis-turbing me, though.
When I'm working, it takes a bomb blast to distract me."
"Thank you, yaa Sidi. I will be as quiet as I can."
I began to turn the color lock on the door. Kmuzu gave a little bow and headed toward the
servants' quar-ters. When he'd turned the corner, I hurried away in the opposite direction. I
went down to the garage and found my car. It felt strange, sneaking away from my own
ser-vant, but I just didn't feel like having him tagging along with me tonight. I drove through
the Christian quarter and then through the upper-class shopping district east of the
Budayeen. I parked the car on the Boulevard il-Jameel, not far from where Bill usually sat in
his taxi. Before I left the car, I took out my pillcase. It seemed like it had been a long time
since I'd treated myself to some friendly drugs. I was well supplied, thanks to my higher
income and the many new contacts I'd met through Papa. I selected a couple of blue
triphets; I was in such a hurry that I swal-lowed them right there, without water. In a little while
I'd be ramping with energy and feeling indomitable. I was going to need the help, because I
had an ugly scene ahead of me.
I also thought about chipping in a moddy, but at the last moment I decided against it. I
needed to talk with Chiri, and I had enough respect for her to show up in my own head.
Afterward, though, things might be different. I might feel like going home as someone else
entirely.
Chiri's club was crowded that night. The air was still and warm inside, sweet with a dozen
different perfumes, sour with sweat and spilled beer. The sexchanges and pre-op debs
chatted with the customers with false cheerful-ness, and their laughter broke through the
shrill music as they called for more champagne cocktails. Bright bolts of red and blue neon
slashed down slantwise behind the bar, and brilliant points of light from spinning mirror balls
sparkled on the walls and ceiling. In one corner there was a hologram of Honey Pilar,
writhing alone upon a blond mink coat spread on the white sands of some romantic beach. It
was an ad for her new sex moddy, Slow, Slow Burn. I stared at it for a moment, almost
hypnotized.
"Audran," came Chiriga's hoarse voice. She didn't sound happy to see me. "Mr. Boss."
"Listen, Chiri," I said. "Let me—"
"Lily," she called to one of the changes, "get the new owner a drink. Gin and bingara with a
hit of Rose's." She looked at me fiercely. "The tende is mine, Audran. Private stock. It
doesn't go with the club, and I'm taking it with me."
She was making it hard for me. I could only imagine how she felt. "Wait a minute, Chiri. I had
nothing to do with—"
"These are the keys. This one's for the register. The
money in there's all yours. The girls are yours, the hassles are yours from now on too. You
got any problems you can go to Papa with "em." She snatched her bottle of tende from
under the bar. "Kwa heri, motherfucker," she snarled at me. Then she stormed out of the
club.
Everything got real quiet then. Whatever song had been playing came to an end and nobody
put on another one. A deb named Kandy was on stage, and she just stood there and stared
at me like I might start slavering and shrieking at any moment. People got up from their
stools near me and edged away. I looked into their faces and I saw hostility and contempt.
Friedlander Bey wanted to divorce me from all my connections to the Budayeen. Making me
a cop had been a great start, but even so I still had a few loyal friends. Forcing Chiri to sell
her club had been another brilliant stroke. Soon I'd be just as lonely and friendless as Papa
himself, except I wouldn't have the consolation of his wealth and power.
"Look," I said, "this is all a mistake. I got to settle this with Chiri. Indihar, take charge, okay?
I'll be right back."
Indihar just gave me a disdainful look. She didn't say anything. I couldn't stand to be in there
another minute. I grabbed the keys Chiri'd dropped on the bar and I went outside. She
wasn't anywhere in sight on the Street. She might have gone straight home, but she'd
probably gone to another club.
I went to the Fee Blanche, old man Gargotier's cafe on Ninth Street. Saied, Mahmoud,
Jacques, and I hung out there a lot. We liked to sit on the patio and play cards early in the
evening. It was a good place to catch the action.
They were all there, all right. Jacques was the token Christian in our crowd. He liked to tell
people that he was three-quarters European. Jacques was strictly heterosex-ual and smug
about it. Nobody liked him much. Mahmoud was a sexchange, formerly a slim-hipped,
doe-eyed danc-ing girl in the clubs on the Street. Now he was short, broad, and mean, like
one of those evil djinn you had to sneak past to rescue the enchanted princess. I heard that
he was running the organized prostitution in the Budayeen for Friedlander Bey these days.
Saied the Half-Hajj glared at me over the rim of a glass of Johnny Walker, his usual drink.
He was wearing his tough-guy moddy, and he was just looking for me to give him an excuse
to break my bones.
"Where y'at?" I said.
"You're scum, Audran," said Jacques softly. "Filth."
"Thanks," I said, "but I can't stay long." I sat in the empty chair. Monsieur Gargotier came
over to see if I was spending any money tonight. His expression was so care-fully neutral, I
could tell he hated my guts now too.
"Seen Chiri pass by here in the last few minutes?" I asked. Monsieur Gargotier cleared his
throat. I ignored him and he went away.
"Want to shake her down some more?" asked Mah-moud. "Think maybe she walked out
with some paper clips that belong to you? Leave her alone, Audran."
I'd had enough. I stood up, and Saied stood up across the table from me. He took two quick
steps toward me, grabbed my cloak with one hand, and pulled his other fist straight back.
Before he could slug me, I chopped quickly at his nose. A little blood came out of his nostril.
He was startled, but then his mouth began to twist in pure rage. I grabbed the rnoddy on his
corymbic implant and ripped it loose. I could see his eyes unfocus. He must have been
completely disoriented for a moment. "Leave me the hell alone," I said, pushing him back
down in his chair. "All of you." I tossed the moddy into the Half-Hajj's lap.
I headed back down the Street, seething. I didn't know what to do next. Chiri's club—my
club, now—was packed with people and I couldn't count on Indihar to keep order. I decided
to go back there and try to sort things out. Before I'd walked very far, Saied came up behind
me and put his hand on my shoulder. "You're making yourself real unpopular, Maghrebi," he
said.
"It's not all my doing."
He shook his head. "You're letting it happen. You're responsible."
"Thanks," I said. I kept walking.
He took my right hand and slapped his badass moddy into it. "You take this," he said. "I
think you're gonna need it."
I frowned. "The kind of problems I got call for a clear head, Saied. I got all these moral
questions to think about. Not just Chiri and her club. Other things."
The Half-Hajj grunted. "Never understand you, Marid," he said. "You sound like a tired old
relic. You're as bad as Jacques. If you just choose your moddies carefully, you never have to
worry about moral questions. God knows I never do."
That's all I needed to hear. "See you around, Saied," I said.
"Yeah, you right." He turned and headed back to the Fee Blanche.
I went on to Chiri's where I shooed everybody out, closed up the place, and drove back to
Friedlander Bey's. I climbed the stairs wearily to my apartment, glad that the long,
surprise-filled day was finally over. As I was getting ready for bed, Kmuzu appeared quietly
in the doorway. "You shouldn't deceive me, yaa Sidi."
"Your feelings hurt, Kmuzu?"
"I am here to help you. I'm sorry you refused my protection. A time may come when you will
be glad to call on me."
"That's quite possibly true," I said, "but in the mean-time, how about leaving me alone?"
He shrugged. "Someone is waiting to see you, yaa Sidi."
I blinked at him. "Who?"
"A woman."
I didn't have the energy to deal with Umm Saad now. Then again, it might be Chiri—
"Shall I show her in?" asked Kmuzu.
"Yeah, what the hell." I was still dressed, but I was getting very tired. I promised myself that
this was going to be a very short conversation.
"Marid?"
I looked around. Framed in the door, wearing a rag-ged brown cloth coat, holding a battered
plastic suitcase, was Angel Monroe. Mom.
"Thought I'd come spend a few days with you in the city," she said. She grinned drunkenly.
"Hey, ain't you glad to see me?"




Hen my admirable add-on woke me on Monday morning, I lay in bed for a few moments,
think-ing. I was willing to admit that maybe I'd made a few mistakes the night before. I wasn't
sure how I might have repaired the situation with Chiri, but I should have tried. I owed that
much to her and our friendship. I wasn't happy about seeing my mother at the door later,
either. I'd solved that problem by digging out fifty kiam and packing her off into the night. I
sent Kmuzu with her to find a hotel room. At breakfast, Friedlander Bey offered me some
constructive criticism on that decision.
He was furious. There was a husky, hoarse quality to his voice that let me know he was
trying like hell not to shout at me. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I could feel him
tremble with emotion. His breath was per-fumed with mint as he quoted the noble Qur'an. " 'If
one of your parents or both of them attain old age with thee, say not fie unto them nor
repulse them, but speak unto them a gracious word. And lower unto them the wing of
submission through mercy, and say: My Lord! Have mercy on them both as they did care for
me when I was little.""
I felt shaken. Being inundated by Friedlander Bey's wrath was kind of like practicing for The
Day of Judg-ment. He'd think that comparison was sacrilegious, of course, but he's never
been the target of his own fury.
I couldn't keep from stammering. "You mean Angel Monroe." Jeez, that was a lame thing to
say, but Papa'd surprised me with this tirade. I still wasn't thinking clearly.
"I'm talking about your mother," he said. "She came to you in need, and you turned her away
from your door."
"I provided for her the best way I knew how." I wondered how Papa had heard about the
incident in the first place.
"You do not cast your mother out to abide with strangers! Now you must seek the
forgiveness of Allah."
That made me feels a little better. This was one of those times when he said "Allah" but he
meant "Fried-lander Bey." I had sinned against his personal code; but if I could find the right
things to say and do, it would be all right again. "O Shaykh," I said slowly, choosing my
words carefully, "I know how you feel about women in your house. I hesitated to invite her to
stay the night under your roof, and it was too late to consult with you. I bal-anced my mother's
need against your custom, and I did what I thought best." Well, hell, that was almost true.
He glared at me, but I could see that he'd lost the edge of his anger. "Your action was a
worse affront to me than having your mother as a guest in my home," he said.
"I understand, O Shaykh, and I beg you to forgive me. I did not mean to offend you or
disregard the teaching of the Prophet."
"May the blessing of Allah be upon him and peace," Papa murmured automatically. He
shook his head rue-fully, but with each passing second his grim expression lightened. "You
are still young, my son. This is not the last error of judgment you will make. If you are to
become a righteous man and a compassionate leader, you must learn from my example.
When you are in doubt, never be afraid to seek my counsel, whatever the time or place."
"Yes, O Shaykh," I said quietly. The storm had passed.
"Now you must find your mother, return her here, and make her welcome in a suitable
apartment. We have many unused rooms, and this house is yours as well as mine."
I could tell by his tone that this conversation was over, and I was pretty damn glad. It had
been like crossing between the minarets of the Shoal Mosque on a tight-rope. "You are the
father of kindness, O Shaykh," I said.
"Go in safety, my nephew."
I went back up to my suite, my breakfast forgotten. Kmuzu, as usual, went with me. "Say," I
said, as if the thought had just occurred to me, "you didn't happen to let Friedlander Bey
know about last night, did you?"
"Yaa Sidi," he said with a blank expression, "it is the
Will of the master of the house that I tell him of these things."
I chewed my lip thoughtfully. Talking to Kmuzu was like addressing a mythical oracle: I had to
be sure to phrase my questions with absolute precision, or I'd get nonsense for an answer. I
began simply. "Kmuzu, you are my slave, aren't you?"
"Yes," he said.
"You obey me?»
"I obey you and the master of the house, yaa Sidi."
"Not necessarily in that order, though."
"Not necessarily," he admitted.
"Well, I'm gonna give you a plain, unambiguous com-mand. You won't have to clear it with
Papa because he suggested it to me in the first place. I want you to find a vacant apartment
somewhere in the house, preferably far away from this one, and install my mother
comfortably. I want you to spend the entire day seeing to her needs. When I get home from
work, I'll need to talk to her about her plans for the future, so that means she gets no drugs
and no alcohol."
Kmuzu nodded. "She could not get those things in this house, yaa Sidi."
I'd had no problem smuggling my Pharmaceuticals in, and I was sure Angel Monroe had her
own emergency supply hidden somewhere too. "Help her unpack her things," I said, "and
take the opportunity to make sure she's checked all her intoxicants at the door."
Kmuzu gave me a thoughtful look. "You hold her to a stricter standard than you observe
yourself," he said qui-etly.
"Yeah, maybe," I said, annoyed. "Anyway, it's not your place to mention it."
"Forgive me, yaa Sidi."
"Forget it. I'll drive myself to work today."
Kmuzu didn't like that, either. "If you take the car," he said, "how can I bring your mother from
the hotel?"
I smiled slowly. "Sedan chair, oxcart, hired camel car-avan, I don't care. You're the slave, you
figure it out. See you tonight." On my desk was yet another thick envelope stuffed with paper
bills. One of Friedlander Bey's little helpers had let himself into my apartment while I'd been
downstairs. I took the envelope and my briefcase and left before Kmuzu could come up with
another objection.
My briefcase still held the cell-memory file on Abu Adil. I was supposed to have read through
it last night, but I never got around to it. Hajjar and Shaknahyi were prob-ably going to be
griped, but I didn't care. What could they do, fire me?
I drove first to the Budayeen, leaving my car on the boulevard and walking from there to
Laila's modshop on Fourth Street. Laila's was small, but it had character, crammed between
a dark, grim gambling den and a noisy bar that catered to teenage sexchanges. The
moddies and daddies in Laila's bins were covered with dust and fine grit, and generations
of small insects had met their Maker among her wares. It wasn't pretty, but what you got from
her most of the time was good old honest value. The rest of the time you got damaged,
worthless, even dangerous merchandise. You always felt a little rush of adrenalin before you
chipped one of Laila's ancient and shopworn moddies directly into your brain.
She was always—always—chipped in, and she never stopped whining. She whined hello,
she whined goodbye, she whined in pleasure and in pain. When she prayed, she whined to
Allah. She had dry black skin as wrinkled as a raisin, and straggly white hair. Laila was not
someone I liked to spend a lot of time with. She was wearing a moddy this morning, of
course, but I couldn't tell yet which one. Sometimes she was a famous Eur-Am film or holo
star, or a character from a forgotten novel, or Honey Pilar herself. Whoever she was, she'd
yammer. That was all I could count on.
"How you doing, Laila?" I said. There was the acrid bite of ammonia in her shop that
morning. She was squirt-ing some ugly pink liquid from a plastic bottle up into the corners of
the room. Don't ask me why.
She glanced at me and gave me a slow, rapturous smile. It was the look you get only from
complete sexual satisfaction or from a large dose of Sonneine. "Marid," she said serenely.
She still whined, but now it was a serene whine.
"Got to go out on patrol today, and I thought you might have—"
"Marid, a young girl came to me this morning and
said, 'Mother, the eyes of the narcissus are open, and the cheeks of the roses are red with
blushing! Why don't you come outside and see how beautifully Nature has adorned the
world!'"
"Laila, if you'll just give me a minute—"
"And I said to her, 'Daughter, that which delights you will fade in an hour, and what profit will
you then have in it? Instead, come inside and find with me the far greater beauty of Allah,
who created the spring.' " Laila finished her little homily and looked at me expectantly, as if
she were waiting for me either to applaud or collapse from enlightenment.
I'd forgotten religious ecstasy. Sex, drugs, and reli-' gious ecstasy. Those were the big
sellers in Laila's shop, and she tested them all out personally. You had her per-sonal Seal of
Approval on every moddy.
"Can I talk now? Laila?"
She stared at me, swaying unsteadily. Slowly she reached one scrawny arm up and popped
the moddy out. She blinked a couple of times, and her gentle smile disap-peared. "Get you
something, Marid?" she said in her shrill voice.
Laila had been around so long, there was a rumor that as a child she'd watched the imams
lay the foundation of the Budayeen's walls. But she knew her moddies. She knew more
about old, out-of-print moddies than anyone else I've ever met. I think Laila must have had
one of the world's first experimental implants, because her brain had never worked quite
right afterward. And the way she still abused the technology, she should have burnt out her
last gray cells years ago. She'd withstood cerebral torture that would have turned anyone
else into a drooling zombie. Laila probably had a tough protective callus on her brain that
prevented anything from penetrating. Anything at all.
I started over from the beginning. "I'm going out on patrol today, and I was wondering if you
had a basic cop moddy."
"Sure, I got everything." She hobbled to a bin near the back of the store and dug around in it
for a moment. The bin was marked "Prussia/Poland/Breulandy." That didn't have anything to
do with which moddies were actu-ally in there; Laila'd bought the battered dividers and
scuffed labels from some other kind of shop that was going out of business.
She straightened up after a few seconds, holding two shrink-wrapped moddies in her hand.
"This is what you want," she said.
One was the pale blue Complete Guardian moddy I'd seen other rookie cops wearing. It
was a good, basic piece of procedural programming that covered almost every conceivable
situation. I figured that between the Half-Hajj's mean-mother moddy and the Guardian, I was
cov-ered. "What's this other one?" I asked.
"A gift to you at half price. Dark Lightning. Only this j version's called Wise Counselor. It's
what I was wearing | when you came in."
I found that interesting. Dark Lightning was a Nip-ponese idea that had been very popular
fifty or sixty years ago. You sat down in a comfortable padded chair, and Dark Lightning put
you instantly into a receptive trance. Then it presented you with a lucid, therapeutic dream.
Depending on Dark Lightning's analysis of your current           emotional state, it could be a
warning, some advice, or a        mystical puzzle for your conscious mind to work on.
The high price of the contraption kept it a curiosity       among the wealthy. Its Far Eastern
fictions—Dark Light-       ning usually cast you as a contemptuous Nipponese em-               peror in
need of wisdom, or an aged Zen monk begging              sublimely in the snow—limited its appeal
still further.   Lately, however, the Dark Lightning idea had been revived by the growth of
the personality module market. And now apparently there was an Arabic version, called
Wise Counselor.
I bought both moddies, thinking that I wasn't in a position to turn down any kind of help, friend
or fantasy.      For someone who once hated the idea of having his skull          amped, I was sure
building up a good collection of other people's psyches.
Laila had chipped in Wise Counselor again. She gave             me that tranquil smile. It was
toothless, of course, and it made me shiver. "Go in safety," she said in her nasal wail.
"Peace be upon you." I hurried out of her shop, walked back down the Street, and passed
through the gate to where the car was parked. It wasn't far from there to the station house.
Back at my desk on the third floor, I
opened my briefcase. I put my two purchases, the Com-plete Guardian and Wise
Counselor, in the rack with the others. I grabbed the green cobalt-alloy plate and slotted it
into the data deck, but then I hesitated. I really didn't feel like reading about Abu Adil yet.
Instead I took Wise Counselor, unwrapped it, then reached up and chipped it
in.
After a moment of dizziness, Audran saw that he was reclining on a couch, drinking a glass
of lemon sherbet. Facing him on another couch was a handsome man of middle years. With
a shock, he recognized the man as the Apostle of God. Quickly, Audran popped the moddy
out.
I sat there at my desk, holding Wise Counselor and trembling. It wasn't what I'd expected at
all. I found the experience deeply disturbing. The quality of the vision was absolutely
realistic—it wasn't like a dream or a hallu-cination. It didn't feel as if I'd only imagined it; it felt
as if I'd truly been in the same room with Prophet Muham-mad, blessings and peace be on
him.
It should be clear that I'm not a terribly religious person. I've studied the faith and I have
tremendous re-spect for its precepts and traditions, but I guess I just don't find it convenient
to practice them. That probably damns my soul for eternity, and I'll have plenty of time in Hell
to regret my laziness. Even so, I was shocked by the pure arrogance of the moddy's
manufacturer, to presume to depict the Prophet in such a way. Even illustrations in religious
texts are considered idolatrous; what would a court of Islamic law make of the experience I'd
just had?
Another reason I was shaken, I think, was because in -the brief moment before I'd popped
the moddy, I'd got-ten the distinct impression that the Prophet had some-thing intensely
meaningful to tell me.
I started to toss the moddy back into my briefcase, when I had a flash of insight: The
manufacturer hadn't depicted the Prophet, after all. The visions of Wise Coun-selor or Dark
Lightning weren't pre-programmed vi-gnettes written by some cynical software scribbler.
The moddy was psychoactive. It evaluated my own mental and emotional states, and
enabled me to create the illu-sion.
In that sense, I decided, it wasn't a profane mockery of the religious experience. It was only a
means of acces-sing my own hidden feelings. I realized I'd just made a world-class
rationalization, but it made me feel a lot bet-ter. I chipped the moddy in again.
After a moment of dizziness, Audran saw that he was reclining on a couch, drinking a glass
of lemon sherbet. Facing him on another couch was a handsome man of middle years. With
a shock, he recognized the man as the Apostle of God.
"As-salaam alaykum," said the Prophet.
"Wa alaykum as-salaam, yaa Hazrat," replied Audran. He thought it was odd that he felt so
comfortable in the Messenger's presence.
"You know, "said the Prophet, "there is a source of joy that leads you to forget death, that
guides you to an ac-cord with the will of Allah."
"Idon't know exactly what you mean, "Audran said.
Prophet Muhammad smiled. "You have heard that in my life there were many troubles, many
dangers."
"Men repeatedly conspired to kill you because of your teachings, O Apostle of Allah. You
fought many battles."
"Yes. But do you know the greatest danger I ever faced?"
Audran thought for a moment, perplexed. "You lost your father before you were born."
"Even as you lost yours," said the Prophet.
"You lost your mother as a child."
"Even as you were without a mother."
"You went into the world with no inheritance."
The Prophet nodded. "A condition forced upon you, as well. No, none of those things were
the worst, nor were the efforts of my enemies to starve me, to crush me with boulders, to
burn me in my tent, or to poison my food."
"Then, yaa Hazrat," asked Audran, "what was the greatest danger?"
"Early in my season of preaching, the Meccans would not listen to my word. I turned to the
Sardar of Tayefand asked his permission to preach there. The Sardar gave permission, but
I did not know that secretly he plotted to have me attacked by his hired villains. I was badly
hurt, and I fell unconscious to the ground. A friend carried me
out of Tayefand lay me beneath a shady tree. Then he went into the village again to beg for
water, but no one in Tayef would give him any."
"You were in danger of dying?"
Prophet Muhammad raised a hand. "Perhaps, but is a man not always in danger of dying?
When I was again conscious, I lifted my face to Heaven and prayed, 'O Merciful, You have
instructed me to carry Your message to the people, but they will not listen to me. Perhaps it
is my imperfection that prevents them from receiving Your blessing. O Lord, give me the
courage to try again!'
"Then I noticed that Gabriel the Archangel lay upon the sky over Tayef, waiting for my
gesture to turn the village into a blasted wasteland. I cried out in horror: 'No, that is not the
way! Allah has chosen me among men to be a blessing to Mankind, and I do not seek to
chastise them. Let them live. If they do not accept my message, then perhaps their sons or
their sons' sons will.'
"That awful moment of power, when with a lifted finger I might have destroyed all of Tayefand
the people who lived there, that was the greatest danger of my life."
Audran was humbled. "Allah is indeed Most Great," he said. He reached up and popped the
moddy out.
       Yipe. Wise Counselor had sifted through my subskull-
ular impulses, then tailored a vision that both interpreted my current turmoil and suggested
solutions. But what was Wise Counselor trying to tell me? I was just too dull and
literal-minded to understand what it all meant. I thought it might be advising me to go up to
Friedlander Bey and say, "I've got the power to destroy you, but I'm staying my hand out of
charity." Then Papa would be overcome with guilt, and free me of all obligations to him.
Then I realized that it couldn't be that simple. In the first place, I didn't have any such power to
destroy him. Friedlander Bey was protected from lesser creatures like me by baraka, the
almost magical presence possessed by certain great men. It would take a better person
than I to lift a finger against him, even to sneak in and pour poison in his ear while he slept.
Okay, that meant I'd misunderstood the lesson, but it wasn't something I was going to worry
about. The next time I met an imam or a saint on the street, I'd have to ask
him to explain the vision to me. In the meantime I had more important things to do. I put the
moddy back in my briefcase.
Then I loaded the file on Abu Adil and spent about ten minutes glancing through it. It was
every bit as boring as I was afraid it would be. Abu Adil had been brought to the city at an
early age, more than a century and a half ago. His parents had wandered for many months
after the disaster of the Saturday War. As a boy, Abu Adil helped his father, who sold
lemonade and sherbets in the Souk of the Tanners. He played in the narrow, twisting alleys
of the medtnah, the old part of town. When his father died, Abu Adil became a beggar to
support himself and his mother. Somehow, through strength of will and inner resources, he
rejected his poverty and miserable station and became a man of respect and influence in
the medmah. The re-port gave no details of this remarkable transformation, but if Abu Adil
was a serious rival to Friedlander Bey, I had no trouble believing it had happened. He still
lived in a house at the western edge of the city, not far from the Sunset Gate. By all reports it
was a mansion as grand as Papa's, surrounded by ghastly slums. Abu Adil had an army of
friends and associates in the. hovels of the medmah, just as Friedlander Bey had his own in
the Budayeen.
That was about as much as I'd learned when Officer Shaknahyi ducked his head into my
cubicle. "Time to roll," he said.
It didn't bother me in the least to tell my data deck to quit. I wondered why Lieutenant Hajjar
was so worked up about Reda Abu Adil. I hadn't run across anything in the file that
suggested he was anything but another Fried-lander Bey: just a rich, powerful man whose
business took on a gray, even black character now and then. If he was , like Papa—and the
evidence I'd seen indicated that's just what he was—he had little interest in disturbing
innocent people. Friedlander Bey was no criminal mastermind, and I doubted that Abu Adil
was, either. You could rouse men like him only by trespassing on their territory or by
threatening their friends and family.
I followed Shaknahyi downstairs to the garage. "That's mine," he said, pointing to a patrol
car coming in from the previous shift. He greeted the two tired-looking
cops who got out, then slid behind the steering wheel. "Well?" he said, looking up at me.
I wasn't in a hurry to start this. In the first place, I'd be stuck in the narrow confines of the
copcar with Shaknahyi for the duration of the shift, and that prospect didn't ex-cite me at all.
Second, I'd really rather sit upstairs and read boring files in perfect safety than follow this
battle-hardened veteran out into the mean streets. Finally, though, I climbed into the front
seat. Sometimes there's only so much stalling you can do.
"What you carrying?" he said, looking straight out the windshield while he drove. He had a
big wad of gum crammed into his right cheek.
"You mean this?" I held up the Complete Guardian moddy, which I hadn't chipped in yet.
He glanced at me and muttered something under his breath. "I'm talking about what you're
gonna use to save me from the bad guys," he said. Then he looked my way again.
Under my sport coat I was wearing my seizure gun. I took it out of the holster and showed
him. "Got this last year from Lieutenant Okking," I said.
Shaknahyi chewed his gum for a few seconds. "The lieutenant was always all right to me,"
he said. His eyes slid sideways again.
"Yeah, well," I said. I couldn't think of anything terri-bly meaningful to add. I'd been
responsible for Okking's death, and I knew that Shaknahyi knew it. That was some-thing
else I'd have to overcome if we were going to ac-complish anything together. There was
silence in the car for a little while after that.
"Look, that weapon of yours ain't much good except for maybe stunning mice and birds up
close. Take a look on the floor."
I reached under my seat and pulled out a small arse-nal. There was a large seizure cannon,
a static pistol, and a needle gun that looked like its flechettes could strip the meat from the
bones of an adult rhinoceros. "What do you suggest?" I asked.
"How do you feel about splashing blood all over ev-erything?"
"Had enough of that last year," I said.
"Then forget the needle gun, though it's a dandy side
arm. It alternates three sedative barbs, three iced with nerve toxin, and three explosive darts.
The seizure can-non may be too hefty for you too. It's got' four times the power of your little
sizzlegun. It'll stop anybody you aim at up to a quarter of a mile away, but it'll kill a mark
inside a hundred yards. Maybe you ought to go with the static gun."
I stuffed the needle gun and the seizure cannon back under the seat and looked at the static
gun. "What kind of damage will this do?"
Shaknahyi shrugged. "Hit 'em in the head with that two or three times and you've crippled
'em for life. The head's a small target, though. Get 'em in the chest and it's Heart Attack City.
Anywhere else, they can't control their muscles. They're helpless for half an hour. That's what
you want."
I nodded and tucked the static gun into my coat pocket. "You don't think I'll—" My telephone
began war-bling, and I undipped it from my belt. I figured it was one of my other problems
checking in. "Hello?" I said.
"Marid? This is Indihar."
It seemed like they just weren't making good news anymore. I closed my eyes. "Yeah, how
you doing? What's up?"
"You know what time it is? You own a club now, Maghrebi. You got a responsibility to the
girls on the day shift. You want to get down here and open up?"
I hadn't given the club a goddamn thought. It was something I really didn't want to worry
about, but Indihar was right about my responsibility. "I'll get there as soon as I can.
Everybody show up today?"
"I'm here, Pualani's here, Janelle quit, I don't know where Kandy is, and Yasmin's here
looking for a job."
Now Yasmin too. Jeez. "See you in a few minutes."
"Inshallah, Marid."
"Yeah." I clipped the phone back on my belt.
"Where you got to go now? We don't have time for no personal errands."
I tried to explain. "Friedlander Bey thought he was doing me this big favor, and he bought
me my own club in the Budayeen. I don't know a damn thing about running a club. Forgot all
about it until now. I got to pass by there and open the place."
Shaknahyi laughed. "Beware of two-hundred-year-old kingpins bearing gifts," he said.
"Where's this club?"
"On the Street," I said. "Chiriga's place. You know which one I mean?"
He turned and studied me for a moment without saying anything. Then he said, "Yeah, I
know which one you mean." He swung the patrol car around and headed for the Budayeen.
You might think it'd be a kick to zip through the eastern gate in an official car, and drive up
the Street when other vehicular traffic is forbidden. My reaction was just the opposite. I
scrunched myself down in the seat, hoping no one I knew would see me. I'd hated cops all
my life and now I was one; already my former friends were giving me the same treatment I
used to give Hajjar and the other police around the Budayeen. I was grateful that Shaknahyi
had the sense not to turn on the siren.
Shaknahyi dropped the car right in front of Chiriga's club, and I saw Indihar standing on the
sidewalk with Pualani and Yasmin. I was unhappy to see that Yasmin had cut her long,
beautiful black hair, which I'd always loved. Maybe since we'd broken up, she felt she had to
change things. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and got out. "How y'all doing?" I said.
Indihar glowered at me. "We lost about an hour's tips already," she said.
"You gonna run this club or not, Marid?" said Pualani. "I can go work by Jo-Mama's real
easy."
"Frenchy'd take me back in a Marrakesh minute," said Yasmin. Her expression was cold
and distant. Riding around in copcars wasn't improving my status with her at all.
"Don't worry," I said, "I just had a lot on my mind this morning. Indihar, could I hire you to
manage the placfe for me? You know more about running the club than I do."
She stared at me for a few seconds. "Only if you give me a regular schedule," she said. "I
don't want to have to come in early after staying late on night shift. Chiri made us do that all
the time."
"All right, fine. You got any other ideas, let me know."
"You're gonna have to pay me what other managers make too. And I'm only gonna get up
and dance if I feel like it."
I frowned, but she had me in a corner. "That's okay too. Now, who do you suggest to
manage at night?"
Indihar shrugged. "I don't trust none of those sluts. Talk to Chiri. Hire her back."
"Hire Chiri? To work in her own club?"
"It's not her own club anymore," Yasmin pointed out.
"Yeah, right," I said. "You think she'd do it?"
Indihar laughed. "She'll make you pay her three times what any other manager on the Street
gets. She'll give you hell about it too, and she'll steal you blind out of the register if you give
her half a chance. But she'll still be worth it. Nobody can make money like Chiri. Without her,
you'll be renting this property to some rug merchant inside of six months."
"You hurt her feelings real bad, Marid," said Pualani.
"I know, but it wasn't my fault. Friedlander Bey orga-nized the whole thing without talking to
me about it first. He just dropped the club on me as a surprise."
"Chiri doesn't know that," said Yasmin.
I heard a car door slam behind me. I turned and saw Shaknahyi walking toward me, a big
grin on his face. All I needed now was to have him join in. He was really en-joying this.
Indihar and the others hated my guts for turning cop, and the cops felt the same way
because to them I was still a hustler. The Arabs say, "You take off your clothes, you get
cold." That's advice against cutting yourself off from your support group. It doesn't offer any
help if your friends show up in a mob and strip you naked against your will.
Shaknahyi didn't say a word to me. He went up to Indihar, bent, and whispered something in
her ear. Well, a lot of the girls on the Street have this fascination with cops. I never
understood it, myself. And some of the cops don't mind taking advantage of the situation. It
just sur-prised me to find out that Indihar was one of those girls, and that Shaknahyi was one
of those cops.
It didn't occur to me to add this to the list of recent unnatural coincidences: My new partner
just happened to have a thing going with the new manager of the club Friedlander Bey had
just given me.
"Got everything settled here, Audran?" Shaknahyi asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I got to talk to Chiriga sometime today."
"Indihar's right," said Yasmin. "Chili's gonna give you a hard time."
I nodded. "She's entitled, I guess, but I'm still not looking forward to it."
"Let's mount up," said ShaknahyT.
"If I got time later," I said, "I'll drop in and see how y'all are doing."
"We'll be fine," said Pualani. "We know how to do our jobs. You just watch your ass around
Chiri."
"Protect your middle," said Indihar. "If you know what I mean."
I waved and headed back to the patrol car. Shaknahyi gave Indihar a little kiss on the cheek,
then followed me. He got behind the wheel. "Ready to work now?" he asked. We were still
sitting at the curb.
"How long you known Indihar? I never seen you come into Chiri's club."
He gave me this wide-eyed innocent look. "I been knowing her for a long time," he said.
"Right," I said. I just left it there. It didn't sound like he wanted to talk about her.
A shrill alarm went off, and the synthesized voice of the patrol car's comp deck crackled.
"Badge number 374, respond immediately to bomb threat and hostage situa-tion, Cafe de
la Fee Blanche, Ninth Street North."
"Gargotier's place," said Shaknahyi. "We'll take care of it." The comp deck fell silent.
And Hajjar had promised me I wouldn't have to worry about anything like this. "Bismillah
ar-Rahman ar-Raheem, "I murmured. In the name of Allah, the Compas-sionate, the
Merciful.
This time as we rode up the Street, Shaknahyi let the siren scream.
«-i i—'here was a crowd gathered outside the low railing of the Cafe de la Fee Blanche's
patio. An old man sat at U one of the white-painted iron tables, drinking some-thing from a
plastic tumbler. He seemed oblivious to the crisis that was occurring inside the bar. "Get
him out of here," Shaknahyi growled at me. "Get these other people out of here too. I don't
know what's happening in there, but we got to treat it like the guy has a real bomb. And when
you got everybody moved back, go sit in the car."
"But—"
"I don't want to have to worry about you too." He ran around the corner of the cafe to the
north, heading for the cafe's rear entrance.
I hesitated. I knew backup units would be getting here soon, and I decided to let them handle
the crowd control. At the moment, there were more important things to worry about. I still had
Complete Guardian, and I tore open the shrink-wrap with my teeth. Then I chipped the
moddy in.
Audran was sitting at a table in the dimly lighted San Saberio salon in Florence, listening to
a group of musi-cians playing a demure Schubert quartet. Across from him sat a beautiful
blond woman named Costanzia. She raised a cup to her lips, and her china-blue eyes
looked at him over the rim. She was wearing a subtle, fascinating fra-grance that made
Audran think of romantic evenings and soft-spoken promises.
"This must be the best coffee in Tuscany," she mur-mured. Her voice was sweet and gentle.
She gave him a warm smile.
"We didn 't come here to drink coffee, my darling," he said. "We came here to see the
season's new styles."
She waved a hand. "There is time enough for that. For now, let's just relax."
Audran smiled fondly at her and picked up his deli-cate cup. The coffee was the beautiful
color of polished mahogany, and the wisps of steam that rose from it car-ried a heavenly,
enticing aroma. The first taste over-whelmed Audran with its richness. As the coffee, hot and
wonderfully delicious, went down his throat, he realized that Costanzia had been perfectly
correct. He had never before been so satisfied by a cup of coffee.
"I'll always remember this coffee," he said.
"Let's come back here again next year, darling, "said Costanzia.
Audran laughed indulgently. "For San Saberio's new fashions?"
Costanzia lifted her cup and smiled. "For the coffee," she said.
After the advertisement, there was a blackout during which Audran couldn 't see a thing. He
wondered briefly who Costanzia was, but he put her out of his mind. Just as he began to
panic, his vision cleared. He felt a ripple of dizziness, and then it was as if he'd awakened
from a dream. He was rational and cool and he had a job to do. He had become the
Complete Guardian.
He couldn 'tsee or hear anything that was happening inside. He assumed that Shaknahyi
was making his way quietly through the cafe's back room. It was up to Audran to give his
partner as much support as possible. He jumped the iron railing into the patio.
The old man at the table looked up at him. "No doubt you are eager to read my
manuscripts," he said.
Audran recognized the man as Ernst Weinraub, an expatriate from some Central European
country. Weinraub fancied himself a writer, but Audran had never seen him finish anything
but quantities of anisette or bourbon whiskey. "Sir," he said, "you 're in danger here. I'm
going to have to ask you to go out into the street. For your own safety, please move away
from the cafe."
"It's not even midnight yet," Weinraub complained. "Just let me finish my drink."
Audran didn't have time to humor the old drunk. He
left the patio and walked decisively into the interior of the bar.
The scene inside didn't look very threatening. Mon-sieur Gargotier was standing behind the
bar, beneath the huge, cracked mirror. His daughter, Maddie, was sitting at a table near the
back wall. A young man sat at a table against the west wall, under Gargotier's collection of
faded prints of the Mars colony. The young man's hands rested on a small box. His head
swung to look at Audran. "Get the fuck out," he shouted, "or this whole place goes up in a
big bright bang!"
"I'm sure he means it, monsieur, "said Gargotier. He sounded terrified.
"Bet your ass I mean it!" said the young man.
Being a police officer meant sizing up dangerous situ-ations and being able to make quick,
sure judgments. Complete Guardian suggested that in dealing with a mentally disturbed
individual, Audran should try to find out why he was upset and then try to calm him. Complete
Guardian recommended that Audran not make fun of the individual, show anger, or dare him
to carry out his threat. Audran raised his hands and spoke calmly. "I'm not going to threaten
you," Audran said.
The young man just laughed. He had dirty long hair and a patchy growth of beard, and he
was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans and a plaid cotton shirt with its sleeves torn off. He
looked a little like Audran had, before Friedlander Bey had raised his standard of living.
"Mind if I sit and talk with you?" asked Audran.
"I can set this off any time I want," said the young man. "You got the guts, sit down. But keep
your hands flat on the table."
"Sure. "Audran pulled out a chair and sat down. He had his back to the barkeep, but out of
the corner of his eye he could see Maddie Gargotier. She was quietly weeping.
"You ain't gonna talk me out of this, "said the young
man.
Audran shrugged. "I just want to find out what this is all about. What's your name?"
"The hell's that got to do with anything?" "My name is Martd. I was born in Mauretania." "You
can call me Al-Muntaqim." The kid with the bomb had appropriated one of the Ninety-Nine
Beautiful Names of God. It meant "The Avenger."
"You always lived in the city?" Audran asked him.
"Hell no. Misr."
"That's the local name for Cairo, isn't it?" asked Audran.
Al-Muntaqim jumped to his feet, furious. He jabbed a finger toward Gargotier behind the bar
and screamed, "See? See what I mean? That's just what I'm talkin 'about! Well, I'm gonna
stop it once and for all!" He grabbed the box and ripped open the lid.
Audran felt a horrible pain all through his body. It was as if all his joints had been yanked and
twisted until his bones pulled apart. Every muscle in his body felt torn, and the surface of his
skin stung as if it had been sandpapered. The agony went on for a few seconds, and then
Audran lost consciousness.
"You all right?"
No, I didn't feel all right. On the outside I felt red-hot and glowing, as if I'd been staked out
under the desert sun for a couple of days. Inside, my muscles felt quivery. I had lots of
uncontrollable little spasms in my arms, legs, trunk, and face. I had a splitting headache and
there was a horri-ble, sour taste in my mouth. I was having a lot of trouble focusing my eyes,
as if someone had spread thick translu-cent gunk over them.
I strained to make out who was talking to me. I could barely make out the voice because my
ears were ringing so loud. It turned out to be Shaknahyi, and that indicated that I was still
alive. For an awful moment after I came to, I thought I might be in Allah's green room or
somewhere. Not that being alive was any big thrill just then. "What—" I croaked. My throat
was so dry I could barely speak.
"Here." Shaknahyi handed a glass of cold water down to me. I realized that I was lying flat on
my back on the floor, and Shaknahyi and Monsieur Gargotier were stand-ing over me,
frowning and shaking their heads.
I took the water and drank it gratefully. When I fin-ished, I tried talking again. "What
happened?" I said.
"You fucked up," Shaknahyi said.
"Right," I said.


A narrow smile creased Shaknahyi's face. He reached down and offered me a hand. "Get
up off the floor."
I stood up wobbily and made my way to the nearest chair. "Gin and bingara," I said to
Gargotier. "Put a hit of Rose's lime in it." The barkeep grimaced, but he turned away to get
my drink. I took out my pillcase and dug out maybe eight or nine Sonneine.
"I heard about you and your drugs," said Shaknahyi.
"It's all true," I said. When Gargotier brought my drink, I swallowed the opiates. I couldn't wait
for them to start fixing me up. Everything would be just fine in a couple of minutes.
"You could've gotten everybody killed, trying to talk that guy down," Shaknahyi said. I was
feeling bad enough already, I didn't want to listen to his little lecture right then. He went
ahead with it anyway. "What the hell were you trying to do? Establish rapport or something?
We don't work that way when people's lives are in danger."
"Yeah?" I said. "What do you do?"
He spread his hands like the answer should have been perfectly obvious. "You get around
where he can't see you, and you ice the motherfucker."
"Did you ice me before or after you iced Al-Muntaqim?"
"That what he was calling himself? Hell, Audran, you got to expect a little beam diffusion with
these static pis-tols. I'm real sorry I had to drop you too, but there's no permanent damage,
inshallah. He jumped up with that box, and I wasn't gonna wait around for you to give me a
clear shot. I had to take what I could get."
"It's all right," I said. "Where's The Avenger now?"
"The meat wagon came while you were napping. Took him off to the lock ward at the
hospital."
That made me a little angry. "The mad bomber gets shipped to a nice bed in the hospital,
but I got to lie around on the filthy floor of this goddamn saloon?"
Shaknahyi shrugged. "He's in a lot worse shape than you are. You only got hit by the fuzzy
edge of the charge. He took it full."
It sounded like Al-Muntaqim was going to feel pretty rotten for a while. Didn't bother me
none.
"No percentage in debating morality with a loon," said Shaknahyi. "You go in looking for the
first opportunity to stabilize the sucker." He made a trigger-pulling motion with his right index
finger.
"That's not what Complete Guardian was telling me," I said. "By the way, did you pop the
moddy for me? What did you do with it?"
"Yeah," said Shaknahyi, "here it is." He took the moddy out of a shirt pocket and tossed it
down on the floor beside me. Then he raised his heavy black boot and stamped the plastic
module into jagged pieces. Brightly colored fragments of the webwork circuitry skittered
across the floor. "Wear another one of those, I do the same to your face and then I kick the
remnants out of my patrol car."
So much for Marid Audran, Ideal Law Enforcement Officer.
I stood up feeling a lot better, and followed Shaknahyi out of the dimly lighted bar. Monsieur
Gargotier and his daughter, Maddie, went with us. The bartender tried to thank us, but
Shaknahyi just raised a hand and looked modest. "No thanks are necessary for performing
a duty," he said.
"Come in for free drinks anytime," Gargotier said gratefully.
"Maybe we will." Shaknahyi turned to me. "Let's ride," he said. We went out through the
patio gate. Old Weinraub was still sitting beneath his Cinzano umbrella, apparently oblivious
to everything that had gone on.
On the way back to the car I said, "It makes me feel kind of good to be welcome somewhere
again."
Shaknahyi looked at me. "Accepting free drinks is a major infraction."
"I didn't know they had infractions in the Budayeen," I said. Shaknahyi smiled. It seemed that
things had thawed a little between us.
Before I got into the car, a muezzin from some mosque beyond the quarter chanted the
afternoon call to prayer. I watched Shaknahyi go into the patrol car's back-seat and come
out with a rolled prayer rug. He spread the rug on the sidewalk and prayed for several
minutes. For some reason it made me feel very uncomfortable. When he finished, he rolled
the prayer rug again and put it back in the car, giving me an odd look, a kind of silent
reproach.
We both got into the patrol car, but neither of us said anything for a while.
Shaknahyi cruised back down the Street and out of the Budayeen. Curiously, I was no longer
wary of being spotted in the copcar by any of my old friends. In the first place, the way they'd
been treating me, I figured the hell with 'em. In the second place, I felt a little different now
that I'd been fried in the line of duty. The experience at the Fee Blanche had changed my
thinking. Now I appre-ciated the risks a cop has to take day after day.
Shaknahyi surprised me. "You want to stop some-where for lunch?" he asked.
"Sounds good." I was still pretty weak and the sunnies had left me a little lightheaded, so I
was glad to agree.
"There's a place near the station house we sometimes go to." He punched the siren and
made some fast time through the traffic. About a block from the beanery, he turned off the
horn and glided into an illegal parking place. "Police perks," he said, grinning at me. "There
ain't many others."
When we got inside, I was pleasantly surprised. The cookshop was owned by a young
Mauretanian named Meloul, and the food was pure Maghrebi. By bringing me here,
Shaknahyi more than made up for the pain he'd caused me earlier. I looked at him, and
suddenly he didn't seem like such a bad guy.
"Let's grab this table," he said, picking one far from the door and against a wall, where he
could watch the other customers and keep an eye on what was happening outside too.
"Thanks," I said. "I don't get food from home very often."
"Meloul," he called, "I got one of your cousins here."
The proprietor came over, carrying a stainless steel pitcher and basin. Shaknahyi washed
his hands carefully and dried them on a clean white towel. Then I washed my hands and
dried them on a second towel. Meloul looked at me and smiled. He was about my age, but
taller and darker. "I am Berber," he said. "You are Berber too, yes? You are from Oran?"
"I've got a little Berber blood in me," I said. "I was born in Sidi-bel-Abbes, but I grew up in
Algiers."
He came toward me, and I stood up. We exchanged kisses on the cheek. "I live all my life in
Oran," he said. "Now I live in this fine city. Sit down, be comfortable, I bring good food to you
and Jirji."
"The two of you got a lot in common," said Shaknahyi.
I nodded. "Listen, Officer Shaknahyi," I said, "I want to—"
"Call me Jirji. You slapped on that goddamn moddy and followed me into Gargotier's. It was
stupid, but you had guts. You been initiated, sort of."
That made me feel good. "Yeah, well, Jirji, I want to ask you something. Would you say you
were very reli-gious?"
He frowned. "I perform the duties, but I'm not gonna go out on the street and kill infidel
tourists if they don't convert to Islam."
"Okay, then maybe you could tell me what this dream means."
He laughed. "What kind of dream? You and Brigitte Stahlhelm in the Tunnel of Love?"
I shook my head. "No, nothing like that at all. I dreamed I met the Holy Prophet. He had
something to tell me, but I couldn't understand it." I related the rest of the vision Wise
Counselor had created for me.
Shaknahyi raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing for a few moments. He played with the
ends of his mus-tache as he thought. "Seems to me," he said finally, "it's about simple
virtues. You're supposed to remember hu-mility, as Prophet Muhammad, blessings and
peace be upon him, remembered it. Now's not the time for you to make great plans. Later
maybe, Allah willing. That make any sense to you?"
I kind of shivered, because as soon as he said it, I knew he was right. It was a suggestion
from my backbrain that I shouldn't worry about handling my mother, Umm Saad, and Abu
Adil all by myself. I should take things slowly, one thing at a time. They would all come
together eventually. "Thanks, Jirji," I said.
He shrugged. "No thanks are necessary."
"I bring you good food," said Meloul cheerfully, set-ting a platter between Shaknahyi and me.
The mounded-up couscous was fragrant with cinnamon and saffron, and it made me realize
just how hungry I was. In a well in the
middle of the ring of couscous, Meloul had piled bite-sized pieces of chicken and onions
browned in butter and fla-vored with honey. He also brought a plate of bread and cups of
strong black coffee. I could hardly keep myself from diving right in.
"It looks great, Meloul," said Shaknahyi.
"May it be pleasant to you." Meloul wiped his hands on a clean towel, bowed to us, and left
us to our meal.
"In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful," Shaknahyi murmured.
I offered the same brief grace, arid then allowed my-self to scoop up a chunk of chicken and
some of the cous-cous. It tasted even better than it smelled.
When we'd finished, Shaknahyi called for our bill. Meloul came to the table, still smiling. "No
charge. My countrymen eat for free. Policemen eat for free."
"That's kind of you, Meloul," I said, "but we're not allowed to accept—"
Shaknahyi drank the last of his coffee and put down his cup. "It's all right, Marid," he said,
"this is different. Meloul, may your table last forever."
Meloul put his hand on Shaknahyi's shoulder. "May God lengthen your life," he said. He
hadn't turned a cop-per fiq on our patronage, but he looked pleased.
Shaknahyi and I left the cookshop well fed and com-fortable. It seemed a shame to spoil the
rest of the after-noon with police work.
An old woman sat begging on the sidewalk a few yards from Meloul's. She was dressed in a
long black coat and black kerchief. Her sun-darkened face was deeply scored with wrinkles,
and one of her sunken eyes was the color of milk. There was a large black tumor just in front
of her right ear. I went up to her. "Peace be upon you, O Lady," I said.
"And upon you be peace, O Shaykh," she said. Her voice was a gritty whisper.
I remembered that I still had the envelope of money in my pocket. I took it out and opened it,
then counted out a hundred kiam. It hardly made a dent in my roll. "O Lady," I said, "accept
this gift with my respect."
She took the money, astonished by the number of bills. Her mouth opened, then shut. Finally
she said, "By the life of my children, you are more generous than Haatim, O Shaykh! May
Allah open His ways to you." Haatim is the personification of hospitality among the nomad
tribesmen.
She made me feel a little self-conscious. "We thank God every hour," I said quietly, and
turned away.
Shaknahyi didn't say anything to me until we were sitting in the patrol car again. "Do that a
lot?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Drop a hundred kiam on strangers."
I shrugged. "Isn't alms-giving one of the Five Pil-lars?"
"Yeah, but you don't pay much attention to the other four. That's odd too, because for most
people, parting with cash is the toughest duty."
In fact, I was wondering myself why I'd done it. Maybe because I was feeling uncomfortable
about the way I'd been treating my mother. "I just felt sorry for that old woman," I said.
"Everybody in this part of the city does. They all take care of her. That was Safiyya the Lamb
Lady. She's a crazy old woman. You never see her without a pet lamb. She takes it
everywhere. She lets it drink from the fountain at the Shimaal Mosque."
"I didn't see any lamb."
He laughed. "No, her latest lamb got run over by a shish kebab cart a couple of weeks ago.
Right now she has an imaginary lamb. It was standing there right beside her, but only
Safiyya can see it."
"Uh yeah," I said. I'd given her enough to buy herself a couple of new lambs. My little bit to
alleviate the suffer-ing of the world.
We had to skirt the Budayeen. Although the Street runs in the right direction, it comes to a
dead end at the entrance to a cemetery. I knew a lot of people in there— friends and
acquaintances who'd died and been dumped in the cemetery, and the still breathing who
were so des-perately poor that they'd taken up residence in the tombs.
Shaknahyi passed to the south of the quarter, and we drove through a neighborhood that
was entirely foreign to me. At first the houses were of moderate size and not too terribly
rundown; but after a couple of miles, I noticed that everything around me was getting
progressively shabbier. The flat-roofed white stucco homes gave way to
blocks of ugly tenements and then to burned-out, vacant lots dotted with horrible little shacks
made of scrap ply-wood and rusting sheets of corrugated iron.
We drove on, and I saw groups of idle men leaning against walls or squatting on the bare
earth sharing bowls of liquor, probably laqbi, a wine made from the date palm. Women
screamed to each other from the windows. The air was foul with the smells of wood smoke
and hu-man excrement. Children dressed in long tattered shirts played among the garbage
strewn in the gutters. Years ago in Algiers I had been like these hungry urchins, and maybe
that's why the sight of them affected me so much.
Shaknahyi must have seen the expression on my face. "There are worse parts of town than
Hamidiyya," he said. "And a cop's got to be ready to go into any kind of place and deal with
any kind of person."
"I was just thinking," I said slowly. "This is Abu Adil's territory. It doesn't look he does all that
much for these people, so why do they stay loyal to him?"
Shaknahyi answered me with another question. "Why do you stay loyal to Friedlander Bey?"
One good reason was that Papa'd had the punish-ment center of my brain wired when the
rest of the work was done, and that he could stimulate it any time he wanted. Instead, I said,
"It's not a bad life. And I guess I'm just afraid of him."
"Same goes for these poor fellahtn. They live in ter-ror of Abu Adil, and he tosses just
enough their way to keep them from starving to death. I just wonder how people like
Friedlander Bey and Abu Adil get that kind of power in the first place."
I watched the slums pass by beyond the windshield. "How do you think Papa makes his
money?" I asked.
Shaknahyi shrugged. "He's got a thousand cheap hus-tlers out there, all turning over big
chunks of their earn-ings for the right to live in peace."
I shook my head. "That's only what you see going on in the Budayeen. Probably seems like
vice and corruption are Friedlander Bey's main business in life. I've lived in his house for
months now, and I've learned better. The money that comes from vice is just pocket change
to Papa. Counts for maybe five percent of his annual income. He's got a much bigger
concern, and Reda Abu Adil is in the same business. They sell order."
"They sell what?"
"Order. Continuity. Government."
"How?"
"Look, half the countries in the world have split up and recombined again until it's almost
impossible to know who owns what and who lives where and who owes taxes to whom."
"Like what's happening right now in Anatolia," said Shaknahyi.
"Right," I said. "The people in Anatolia, when their ancestors lived there it was called Turkey.
Before that it was the Ottoman Empire, and before that it was Anatolia again. Right now it
looks like Anatolia is breaking up into Galatia, Lydia, Cappadocia, Nicaea, and Asian
Byzantium. One democracy, one emirate, one people's republic, one fascist dictatorship,
and one constitutional monarchy. There's got to be somebody who's staying on top of it all,
keeping the records straight."
"Maybe, but it sounds like a tough job."
"Yeah, but whoever does it ends up the real ruler of the place. He'll have the real power,
because all the little states will need his help to keep from collapsing."
"It makes a weird kind of sense. And you're telling me that's what Friedlander Bey's racket
is?"
"It's a service," I said. "An important service. And there are lots of ways for him to exploit the
situation."
"Yeah, you right," he said admiringly. We turned a corner, and there was a long, high wall
made of dark brown bricks. This was Reda Abu Adil's estate. It looked like it was every bit
as huge as Papa's. As we stopped at the guarded gate, the luxuriousness of the main
house seemed even grander contrasted to the ghastly neighborhood that surrounded it.
Shaknahyi presented our credentials to the guard. "We're here to see Shaykh Reda," he
said. The guard picked up a phone and spoke to someone. After a mo-ment, he let us
continue.
"A century or more ago," Shaknahyi said thought-fully, "crime bosses had these big illicit
schemes to make money. Sometimes they also operated small legal busi-nesses for
practical reasons, like laundering their money."


"Yeah? So?" I said.
"Look at it: You say Reda Abu Adil and Friedlander Bey are two of the most powerful men in
the world, as 'consultants' to foreign states. That's entirely legitimate. Their criminal
connections are much less important. They just provide livelihoods for the old men's
dependents and associates. Things have gotten turned around ass-back-wards."
"That's progress," I said. Shaknahyi just shook his head.
We got out of the patrol car, into the warm afternoon sunshine. The grounds in front of Abu
Adil's house had been carefully landscaped. The fragrance of roses was in the air, and the
strong, pleasant scent of lemons. There were cages of songbirds on either side of an
ancient stone fountain, and the warbling music filled the afternoon with a languorous peace.
We went up the ceramic-tiled path to the mansion's geometrically carved front door. A
servant had already opened it and was waiting for us to explain our business.
"I'm Officer Shaknahyi and this is Marid Audran. We've come to see Shaykh Reda."
The servant nodded but said nothing. We followed him into the house, and he closed the
heavy wooden door behind us. Sunlight streamed in from latticed windows high over our
heads. From far away I heard the sound of someone playing a piano. I could smell lamb
roasting and coffee brewing. The squalor only a stone's throw away had been completely
shut out. The house was a self-contained little world, and I'm sure that's just as Abu Adil
intended it.
We were led directly into Abu Adil's presence. I couldn't even get in to see Friedlander Bey
that quickly.
Reda Abu Adil was a large, plump old man. He was like Papa in that it was impossible to
guess just how old he might be. I knew for a fact that he was at least a hundred twenty-five. It
wouldn't surprise me to learn that he was just as old as Friedlander Bey. He was wearing a
loose white robe and no jewelry. He had a carefully trimmed white beard and mustache and
thick white hair, out of which poked a dove-gray moddy with two daddies snapped in. I was
expert enough to notice that Abu Adil did not have a protruding plug, as I had; his hardware
chipped into a corymbic socket.
Abu Adil reclined on a hospital bed that had been elevated so that he could see us
comfortably as we spoke. He was covered by an expensive hand-embroidered blan-ket. His
gnarled hands lay outside the cover, flat on either side of his body. His eyes were
heavy-lidded, as if he were drugged or desperately sleepy. He grimaced and groaned
frequently while we stood there. We waited for him to say something.
He did not. Instead, a younger man standing beside the hospital bed spoke up. "Shaykh
Reda welcomes you to his home. My name is Umar Abdul-Qawy. You may ad-dress Shaykh
Reda through me."
This Umar person was about fifty years old. He had bright, mistrustful eyes and a sour
expression that looked like it never changed. He too looked well fed, and he was dressed in
an impressive gold-colored robe and metallic blue caftan. He wore nothing on his head and,
like his master, a moddy divided his thinning hair. I disliked him from the getgo.
It was clear to me that I was facing my opposite num-ber. Umar Abdul-Qawy did for Abu Adil
what I did for Friedlander Bey, although I'm sure he'd been at it longer and was more
intimate with the inner workings of his master's empire. "If this is a bad time," I said, "we can
come back again."
"This is a bad time," said Umar. "Shaykh Reda suffers the torments of terminal cancer. You
see, then, that an-other time would not necessarily be better."
"We pray for his well-being," I said.
A tiny smile quirked the edge of Abu Adil's lips. "Al-lah yisallimak," said Umar. "God bless
you. Now, what has brought you to us this afternoon?"
This was inexcusably blunt. In the Muslim world, you don't inquire after a visitor's business.
Custom further requires that the laws of hospitality be observed, if only minimally. I'd
expected to be served coffee, if not offered a meal as well. I looked at Shaknahyi.
It didn't seem to bother him. "What dealings does Shaykh Reda have with Friedlander
Bey?"
That seemed to startle Umar. "Why, none at all," he said, spreading his hands. Abu Adil
gave a long, pain-filled
moan and closed his eyes tightly. Umar didn't even turn in his direction.
"Then Shaykh Reda does not communicate at all with him?" Shaknahyi asked.
"Not at all. Friedlander Bey is a great and influential man, but his interests lie in a distant
part of the city. The two shaykhs have never discussed anything of a business nature. Their
concerns do not meet at any point."
"And so Friedlander Bey is no hindrance or obstacle to Shaykh Reda's plans?"
"Look at my master," said Umar. "What sort of plans do you think he has?" Indeed, Abu Adil
looked entirely helpless in his agony. I wondered what had made Lieuten-ant Hajjar set us
on this fool's errand.
"We received some information, and we had to check it out," said Shaknahyi. "We're sorry
for the intrusion."
"That's quite all right. Karnal will see you to the door." Umar stared at us with a stony
expression. Abu Adil, however, made an attempt to raise his hand in fare-well or blessing,
but it fell back limply to the blanket.
We followed the servant back to the front door. When we were alone again outside,
Shaknahyi began to laugh. "That was some performance," he said.
"What performance? Did I miss something?"
"If you'd read the file all the way through, you'd know that Abu Adil doesn't have cancer. He's
never had can-cer."
"Then—"
Shaknahyi's mouth twisted in contempt. "You ever hear of Proxy Hell? It's a bunch of lunatics
who wear bootleg, underground moddies turned out in somebody's back room. They're
recordings taken from real people in horrible situations."
I was dismayed. "Is that what Abu Adil's doing? Wear-ing the personality module of a
terminal cancer patient?"
Shaknahyi nodded as he opened the car door and got in. "He's chipped into vicarious pain
and suffering. You can buy any kind of disease or condition you want on the black market.
There are plenty of deranged masochists like him out there."
I joined him in the patrol car. "And I thought the girls and debs on the Street were misusing
the moddies. This adds a whole new meaning to the word perversion." Shaknahyi started up
the car and drove around the fountain toward the gate. "They introduce some new
technology and no matter how much good it does for most people, there's always a crazy
son of a bitch who'll find something twisted to do with it."
I thought about that, and about my own bodmods, as we drove back to the station house
through the wretched district that was home to Reda Abu Adil's faithful follow-ers.
During the next week, I spent as much time in the
Jpatrol car as I did at my computer on the third floor of the station house. I felt good after my
first experi-ences as a cop on patrol, although it was clear that I still had a lot to learn from
Shaknahyi. We intervened in do-mestic squabbles and investigated robberies, but there
were no more dramatic crises like Al-Muntaqim's clumsy bomb threat.
Shaknahyi had let several days pass, and now he wanted to follow up on our visit to Reda
Abu Adil. He guessed that Friedlander Bey had told Lieutenant Hajjar to assign this
investigation to us, but Papa was still pre-tending he wasn't interested in whatever it was
about. Our delicate probing would be a lot more successful if someone would just tell us
what we were trying to un-cover.
Yet there were other concerns on my mind. One morning, after I'd dressed and Kmuzu had
served me breakfast, I sat back and thought about what I wanted to accomplish that day.
"Kmuzu," I said, "would you wake my mother and see if she'll speak to me? I need to ask her
something before I go to the station house."
"Of course, yaa Sidi." He looked at me warily, as if I were trying to pull another fast one. "You
wish to see her immediately?"
"Soon as she can make herself decent. If she can make herself decent." I caught Kmuzu's
disapproving ex-pression and shut up.
I drank some more coffee until he returned. "Umm Marid will be glad to see you now,"
Kmuzu said.
I was surprised. "She never liked getting up much before noon."
"She was already awake and dressed when I knocked on her door."
Maybe she'd turned over a new leaf, but I hadn't been listening close enough to hear it. I
grabbed my brief-case and sport coat. "I'll just drop in on her for a couple of minutes," I said.
"No need for you to come with me." I should have known better by then; Kmuzu didn't say a
word, but he followed me out of the apartment and into the other wing, where Angel Monroe
had been given her own suite of rooms.
"This is a personal matter," I told Kmuzu when we got to her door. "Stay out here in the hall if
you want." I rapped on the door and went in.
She was reclining on a divan, dressed very modestly in a shapeless black dress with long
sleeves, a version of the outfit conservative Muslim women wear. She also had on a large
scarf hiding her hair, although the veil over her face had been loosened on one side and
hung down over her shoulder. She puffed on the mouthpiece of a narjilah. There was strong
tobacco in the water pipe now, but that didn't mean there hadn't been hashish there recently,
or that it wouldn't be there again soon.
"Morning of well-being, O my mother," I said.
I think she was caught off guard by my courteous greeting. "Morning of light, O Shaykh," she
replied. Her brow furrowed as she studied me from across the room. She waited for me to
explain why I was there.
"Are you comfortable here?" I asked.
"It's all right." She took a long pull on the mouthpiece and the narjilah burbled. "You done
pretty well for your-self. How'd you happen to land in this lap of luxury? Per-forming personal
services for Papa?" She gave me a crooked leer.
"Not the services you're thinking of, O Mother. I'm Friedlander Bey's administrative
assistant. He makes the business decisions and I carry them out. That's as far as it goes."
"And one of his business decisions was to make you a cop?"
"That's exactly the way it was."
She shrugged. "Uh yeah, if you say so. So why'd you
decide to put me up here? Suddenly worried about your old mom's welfare?"
"It was Papa's idea."
She laughed. "You never was an attentive child, O Shaykh."
"As I recall, you weren't the doting mother, either. That's why I'm wondering why you showed
up here all of a sudden."
She inhaled again on the narjilah. "Algiers is boring, I lived there most of my life. After you
came to see me, I knew I had to get out. I wanted to come here, see the city again."
"And see me again?"
She gave me another shrug. "Yeah, that too."
"And Abu Adil? You drop by his palace first, or haven't you been over there yet?" That's what
we in the cop trade call a shot in the dark. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don't.
"I ain't having nothing more to do with that son of a bitch," she said. She almost snarled.
Shaknahyi would have been proud of me. I kept my emotions under control and my
expression neutral. "What's Abu Adil ever done to you?"
"That sick bastard. Never mind, it's none of your busi-ness." She concentrated on her water
pipe for a few mo-ments.
"All right," I said. "I'll respect your wishes, O my mother. Anything I can do for you before I
leave?"
"Everything's great. You run along and play Protec-tor of the Innocent. Go roust some poor
working girl and think of me."
I opened my mouth to make some sharp reply, but I caught myself in time. "You get hungry,
or you need any-thing, just ask Youssef or Kmuzu. May your day be happy."
"Your day be prosperous, O Shaykh." Whenever she called me that, there was heavy irony in
her voice.
I nodded to her and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me. Kmuzu was in the
corridor, right where I'd left him. He was so goddamn loyal, I almost felt like scratching him
behind the ears. I didn't buy that act for a minute.
"It would be well for you to greet the master of the house before we leave for the police
station," he said.
"I don't need you to rehearse me on my manners, Kmuzu." He had this way of annoying me.
"Are you im-plying that I don't know my duties?"
"I imply nothing, yaa Sidi. You are inferring."
"Sure." You just can't argue with a slave.
Friedlander Bey was already in his office. He sat be-hind his great desk, massaging his
temples with one hand. Today he was wearing a pale yellow silk robe with a starched white
shirt over it, buttoned to the neck and with ho tie. Over the shirt he had on an
expensive-looking herringbone-tweed suit jacket. It was a costume only an old and revered
shaykh could get away with wearing. I thought it looked just fine. "Habib," he said. "Labib."
Habib and Labib are the Stones That Speak. The only way you can tell them apart is to call
one of the names. There's an even chance one of 'em will blink. If not, it doesn't really make
any difference. In fact, I couldn't swear that they blink in response to their own names. They
may be doing it just for fun.
Both of the Stones That Speak were in the office, standing on either side of a
straight-backed chair. In the chair, I was surprised to see, was Umm Saad's young son. The
Stones each had one hand on Saad's shoulders, and the hands were kneading and
crushing the boy's bones. He was being put to the question. I've had that treatment, and I can
testify that it isn't a lick of fun.
Papa smiled briefly when I came into the room. He did not greet me, but looked back at
Saad. "Before you came to the city," he said in a low voice, "where did you and your mother
dwell?"
"Many places," Saad answered. There was fear in his voice.
Papa returned to rubbing his forehead. He stared down at his desktop, but waved a few
fingers at the Stones That Speak. The two huge men tightened their grip on the boy's
shoulders. The blood drained from Saad's face, and he gasped.
"Before you came to the city," Friedlander Bey re-peated calmly, "where did you live?"
"Most recently in Paris, O Shaykh." Saad's voice was thin and strained.
The answer startled Papa. "Did your mother like liv-ing among the Franj?"
"I guess so."
Friedlander Bey was doing an admirable impersona-tion of a bored person. He picked up a
silver letter opener and toyed with it. "Did you live well in Paris?"
"I guess so." Habib and Labib began to crush Saad's collarbones. He was encouraged to
give more details. "We had a big apartment in the Rue de Paradis, O Shaykh. My mother
likes to eat well and she likes giving parties. The months in Paris were pleasant. It surprised
me when she told me we were coming here."
"And did you labor to earn money, so your mother could eat Franji food and wear Franji
clothing?"
"I did no labor, O Shaykh."
Papa's eyes narrowed. "Where do you think the money came from to pay for these things?"
Saad hesitated. I could hear him moan as the Stones applied still more pressure. "She told
me it came from her father," he cried.
"Her father?" said Friedlander Bey, dropping the let-ter opener and looking at Saad directly.
"She said from you, O Shaykh."
Papa grimaced and made a quick gesture with both hands. The Stones moved back, away
from the youth. Saad slumped forward, his eyes tightly closed. His face was shiny with
sweat.
"Let me tell you one thing, O clever one," said Papa. "And remember that I do not lie. I am
not your mother's father, and I am not your grandfather. We share no blood. Now go."
Saad tried to stand, but collapsed back into the chair. His expression was grim and
determined, and he glared at Friedlander Bey as if he were trying to memorize every detail
of the old man's face. Papa had just called Umm Saad a liar, and I'm sure that at that
moment the boy was entertaining some pitiful fantasy of revenge. At last he managed to
stand up again, and he made his way shakily to the door. I intercepted him.
"Here," I said. I took out my pillcase and gave him two tabs of Sonneine. "You'll feel a lot
better in a few minutes."
He took the tabs, looked me fiercely in the eye, and dropped the sunnies to the floor. Then
he turned his back on me and left Friedlander Bey's office. I bent down and
reclaimed the Sonneine. To paraphrase a local proverb: a white tablet for a black day.
After the formal greetings, Papa invited me to be comfortable. I sat in the same chair from
which Saad had just escaped. I have to admit that I suppressed a little shudder. "Why was
the boy here, O Shaykh?" I asked.
"He was here at my invitation. He and his mother are once again my guests."
I must have missed something. 'Tour graciousness is legendary, O my uncle; but whey do
you permit Umm Saad to intrude on your peace? I know she upsets you."
Papa leaned back in his chair and sighed. At that moment, he showed every year of his long
life. "She came to me humbly. She begged my forgiveness. She brought me a gift." He
gestured to a platter of dates stuffed with nutmeats and rolled in sugar. He smiled ruefully. "I
don't know where she got her information, but someone told her that these are my favorite
treat. Her tone was respect-ful, and she made a claim upon my hospitality that I could not
dismiss." He spread his hands, as if that explained it all.
Friedlander Bey observed traditions of honor and generosity that have all but disappeared
in this day and age. If he wanted to welcome a viper back into his home, I had nothing to say
about it. "Then your instructions con-cerning her have changed, O Shaykh?" I asked.
His expression did not alter. He didn't even blink. "Oh no, that's not what I mean. Please kill
her as soon as it's convenient for you, but there's no hurry, my son. I find I'm getting curious
about what Umm Saad hopes to ac-complish."
"I will conclude the matter soon," I said. He frowned. "Inshallah, "I added quickly. "Do you
think she's working for someone else? An enemy?"
"Reda Abu Adil, of course," said Papa. He was very matter-of-fact about it, as if there wasn't
the slightest cause for concern.
"Then it was you, after all, who ordered the investiga-tion of Abu Adil."
He raised a plump hand in denial. "No," he insisted, "I had nothing to do with that. Speak to
your Lieutenant Hajjar about it."
Lot of good that would do. "O Shaykh, may I ask you
another question? There's something I don't understand about your relationship to Abu Adil."
Suddenly he looked bored again. That put me on my guard. I gave a reflexive glance over
my shoulders, half expecting to see the Stones That Speak moving in close behind me.
"Your wealth comes from selling updated data files to governments and heads of state,
doesn't it?"
"That is greatly oversimplified, my nephew."
"And Abu Adil pursues the same business. Yet you told me you do not compete."
"Many years before you were born, before even your mother was born, Abu Adil and I came
to an agreement." Papa opened a plain clothbound copy of the holy Qur'an and glanced at
the page. "We avoided competition be-cause someday it could result in violence and harm
to ourselves or those we love. On that long-ago day we di-vided the world, from Morocco far
in the west to Indone-sia far in the east, wherever the beautiful call of the muez-zin awakens
the faithful from sleep."
"Like Pope Alexander drawing the Line of Demarca-tion for Spain and Portugal," I said.
Papa looked displeased. "Since that time, Reda Abu Adil and I have had few dealings of
any sort, although we live in the same city. He and I are at peace."
Yeah, you right. For some reason, he wasn't going to give me any direct help. "O Shaykh," I
said, "it's time for me to go. I pray to Allah for your health and prosperity." I came forward
and kissed him on the cheek.
"You will make me lonely for your presence," he re-plied. "Go in safety."
I left Friedlander Bey's office. In the hallway, Kmuzu tried to take my briefcase from me. "It is
unseemly for you to carry this, when I am here to serve you," he said.
"You want to go through it and look for drugs," I said with some irritation. "Well, there aren't
any in there. I got them in my pocket, and you'll have to wrestle me to the ground first."
"You are being absurd, yaa Sidi," he said.
"I don't think so. Anyway, I'm not ready to leave for the office yet."
"It is already late."
"Goddamn it, I know that! I just want to have a few words with Umm Saad, now that she's
living under this roof again. Is she in the same suite?"
"Yes. This way, yaa Sidi."
Umm Saad, like my mother, stayed in the other wing of the mansion. While I followed Kmuzu
through the carpeted halls, I opened my briefcase and took out Saied's moddy, the tough,
ruthless personality. I chipped it in. The effect was remarkable. It was the opposite of the
Half-Hajj's dumbing-down module, which had narrowed and blurred my senses. This one,
which Saied always called Rex, seemed to focus my attention. I was filled with pur-pose; but
more than that, I was determined to drive straight toward my goal, and I'd crush anything that
tried to obstruct me.
Kmuzu knocked lightly on Umm Saad's door. There was a long pause, and I heard no one
stirring inside. "Get out of the way," I said to Kmuzu. My voice was a mean growl. I stepped
up to the door and rapped on it sharply. "You want to let me in?" I called. "Or you want me to
let myself in?"
That got a response. The boy swung the door open and stared at me. "My mother isn't—"
"Out of the way, kid," I said. I pushed him aside.
Umm Saad was sitting at a table, watching the news on a small holoset. She looked up at
me. "Welcome, O Shaykh," she said. She wasn't happy.
"Yeah, right," I said. I sat in a chair across the table from her. I reached across and tapped
the holoset off. "How long you known my mother?" I asked. Another shot in the dark.
Umm Saad looked perplexed. "Your mother?"
"Goes by Angel Monroe sometimes. She's staying down the hall from you."
Umm Saad shook her head slowly. "I've only seen her once or twice. I've never spoken to
her."
"You must've known her before you came to this house." I just wanted to see how big this
conspiracy was.
"Sorry," she said. She gave me a wide-eyed, innocent smile that looked as out of place on
her as it would have on a desert scorpion.
Okay, sometimes a shot in the dark doesn't get you anywhere. "And Abu Adil?"
"Who's that?" Her expression was all angelic and vir-tuous.
I started to get angry. "I just want some straight an-swers, lady. What I got to do, bust up your
kid?"
Her face got very serious. She was doing "sincere" now. "I'm sorry, I really don't know any of
those people. Am I supposed to? Did Friedlander Bey tell you that?"
I assumed she was lying about Abu Adil. I didn't know if she'd been lying about my mother.
At least I could check that out later. If I could believe my mother.
I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Yaa Sidi?" said Kmuzu. He sounded afraid that I might
rip Umm Saad's head off and hand it to her.
"All right," I said, still feeling wonderfully malignant. I stood up and glared down at the
woman. "You want to stay in this house, you're gonna have to learn to be more cooperative.
I'm gonna talk to you again later. Think up some better answers."
"I'll be looking forward to it," said Umm Saad. She batted her heavy fake eyelashes at me. It
made me want to punch her face in.
Instead, I turned and stalked out of the apartment. Kmuzu hurried behind me. "You can take
the personality module out now, yaa Sidi," he said nervously.
"Hell, I like it. Think I'll leave it in." Actually I did enjoy the feeling it gave me. There seemed to
be a con-stant flood of angry hormones in my blood. I could see why Saied wore it all the
time. Still, it wasn't the right one to wear around the station house, and Shaknahyi'd
prom-ised to annihilate any moddy I wore in his presence. I reached up reluctantly and
popped it out.
I could feel the difference immediately. My body was still quivering from the leftover
adrenalin, but I calmed down pretty quick. I returned the moddy to my briefcase, then grinned
at Kmuzu. "I was pretty tough, huh?" I said.
Kmuzu didn't say a word, but his look let me know just how low his opinion was.
We went outside, and I waited while Kmuzu brought the car around. When Kmuzu let me out
at the station house, I told him to go back home and keep Angel Monroe out of trouble. "And
pay attention around Umm Saad and the boy too," I said. "Friedlander Bey is sure she's
somehow connected to Reda Abu Adil, but she's playing it very cagey. Maybe you can learn
something."
"I will be your eyes and ears, yaa Sidi," he said.
As usual, the crowd of hungry young boys was loiter-ing outside the copshop. They'd all
begun waving and screaming when they saw my Westphalian sedan pull up to the curb. "O
Master!" they cried. "O Compassionate!"
I reached for a handful of coins as I usually did, but then I remembered the Lamb Lady I'd
helped the week before. I took out my wallet and dropped a five-kiam bill on each of the
kids. "God open upon you," I said. I was a little embarrassed to see that Kmuzu was
watching me closely.
The boys were astonished. One of the older kids took my arm and steered me away from
the rest. He was about fifteen years old, and already there was a dark shadow of beard on
his narrow face. "My sister would be interested to meet such a generous man," he said.
"I'm just not interested in meeting your sister."
He grinned at me. Three of his yellow teeth had been broken off in some fight or accident. "I
have a brother as well," he said. I winced and went past him into the build-ing. Behind me,
the boys were yelling my praises. I was real popular with them, at least until tomorrow, when
I'd have to buy their respect all over again.
Shaknahyi was waiting for me by the elevator. "Where you at?" he said. It seemed that no
matter how early I got to work, Shaknahyi got there earlier.
"Aw right," I said. Actually, I was still tired and I felt mildly nauseated. I could chip in a couple
of daddies that would take care of all that, but Shaknahyi had me intimi-dated. Around him I
functioned with just my natural tal-ents and hoped they were still enough.
It wasn't that long ago that I prided myself on having an unwired brain as smart and quick as
any moddy in the city. Now I was putting all my confidence in the electron-ics. I'd become
afraid of what might happen if I had to face a crisis without them.
"One of these days, we're gonna have to catch Abu Adil when he's not chipped in," said
Shaknahyi. "We don't want to make him suspicious, but he's got some tough questions to
answer."
"What questions?"
Shaknahyi shrugged. "You'll hear 'em next time we pass by there." For some reason, he
wasn't confiding in me any more than Papa had.
Sergeant Catavina found us in the corridor. I didn't know much about him except he was
Hajjar's right-hand man, and that meant he had to be bent one way or an-other. He was a
short man who lugged around too much weight by about seventy pounds. He had wavy black
hair parted by a moddy plug, always with at least one daddy chipped in because he didn't
understand five words in Arabic. It was a total mystery to me why Catavina had come to the
city. "Been lookin' for you two," he said. His voice was shrill, even filtered through the
Arabic-lan-guage daddy.
"What is it?" I asked.
Catavina's predatory brown eyes flicked between me and Shaknahyi. "Just got a tip on a
possible homicide." He handed Shaknahyi a slip of paper with an address on it. "Go take a
look."
"In the Budayeen," said Shaknahyi.
"Yeah," said the sergeant.
"Whoever called this in, anybody recognize the voice?"
"Why should anybody recognize the voice?" asked Catavina.
Shaknahyi shrugged. "We got two or three leads like this in the last couple of months, that's
all."
Catavina looked at me. "He's one of these conspiracy guys. Sees 'em everywhere." The
sergeant walked away, shaking his head.
Shaknahyi glanced at the address again and jammed the slip of paper into a shirt pocket.
"Back of the Budayeen, spitting distance from the graveyard," he said.
"If it isn't just a crank call," I said. "If there is a body in the first place."
"There will be."
I followed him down to the garage. We got into our patrol car and cut across the Boulevard
il-Jameel and un-der the big gate. There was a lot of pedestrian traffic on the Street that
morning, so Shaknahyi angled south on First Street and then west along one of the narrow,
gar-bage-strewn alleys that wind between the flat-roofed, stucco-fronted houses and the
ancient brick tenements. Shaknahyi drove the car up onto the sidewalk. We got out and took
a good look at the building. It was a pale green two-story house in terrible disrepair. The
entryway and front parlor stank of urine and vomit. The wooden lattices covering the
windows had all been smashed some time ago, from the look of things. Everywhere we
walked, we crunched broken brick and shards of glass. The place had probably been
abandoned for many months, maybe years.
It was very still, the dead hush of a house where the power is off and even the faint whir of
motors is missing. As we made our way up from the ground floor to the family's rooms
above, I thought I heard something small and quick scurrying through the trash ahead of us. I
felt my heart pounding in my chest, and I missed the sense of calm competence I'd gotten
from Complete Guardian.
Shaknahyi and I checked a large bedroom that had once belonged to the owner and his
wife, and another room that had been a child's. We found nothing except more sad
destruction. A corner of the house had entirely collapsed, leaving it open to the outside;
weather, vermin, and vagrants had completed the ruin of the child's bed-room. At least here
the fresh air had scoured out the sour, musty smell that choked the rest of the house.
We found the corpse in the next room down the hall. It was a young woman's body, a
sexchange named Blanca who used to dance in Frenchy Benoit's club. I'd known her well
enough to say hello, but not much better. She lay on her back, her legs bent and turned to
one side, her arms thrown up above her head. Her deep blue eyes were open, staring
obliquely at the water-stained ceiling above my shoulder. She was grimacing, as if there'd
been some-thing horrible with her in the room that had first terrified her and then killed her.
"This ain't bothering you, is it?" asked Shaknahyi.
"What you talking about?"
He tapped Blanca's hand with the toe of his boot. "You're not gonna throw up or nothing, are
you?"
"I seen worse," I said.
"Just didn't want you throwing up or nothing." He bent down beside Blanca. "Blood from her
nose and ears. Lips drawn back, fingers clutching like claws. She was
juiced at dose range by a good-sized static gun, I'll bet. Look at her. She hasn't been dead
half an hour."
"Yeah?"
He lifted her left arm and let it fall. "No stiffness yet. And her flesh is still pink. After you're
dead, gravity makes the blood settle. The medical examiner will be able to tell better."
Something struck me as kind of odd. "So the call that came into the station—"
"Bet you kiams to kitty cats the killer made the call himself." He took out his radio and his
electronic log.
"Why would a murderer do that?" I asked.
Shaknahyi gazed at me, lost in thought. "The hell should I know?" he said at last. He made a
call to Hajjar, asking for a team of detectives. Then he entered a brief report in his log.
"Don't touch nothing," he said to me without looking up.
He didn't have to tell me that. "We done here?" I asked.
"Soon as the gold badges show up. In a hurry to travel?"
I didn't answer. I watched him pocket his electronic log. Then he took out a brown
vinyl-covered notebook and a pen and made some more notations. "What's that for?" I
asked.
"Just keeping some notes for myself. Like I said, there's been a couple of other cases like
this lately. Some-body turns up dead and it seems like the bumper himself tips us off."
By the life of my eyes, I thought, if this turns out to be a serial killer, I'm going to pack up and
leave the city for good. I glanced down at Shaknahyi, who was still squat-ting beside
Blanca's body. "You don't think it's a serial killer, do you?" I asked.
He stared through me again for a few seconds. "Nah," he said at last, "I think it's something
much worse."
I remembered how much Hajjar's predecessor, Lieuten-ant Okking, had liked to harass me.
Still, no matter how U hard it had been to get along with Okking, he'd always gotten the job
done. He'd been a shrewd if not brilliant cop, and he'd had a genuine concern for the victims
he saw in a day's work. Hajjar was different. To him it was all a day's work, all right, but
nothing more.
It didn't surprise me to learn that Hajjar was next to useless. Shaknahyi and I watched as he
went about his investigation. He frowned and looked down at Blanca. "Dead, huh?" he said.
I saw Shaknahyi wince. "We got every reason to think so, Lieutenant," he said in a level
voice.
"Any ideas who'd want to shade her?"
Shaknahyi looked at me for help. "Could be any-body," I said. "She was probably wearing
the wrong moddy for the wrong customer."
Hajjar seemed interested. "You think so?"
"Look," I said. "Her plug's bare."
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. "So what?"
"A moddy like Blanca never goes anywhere without something chipped in. It's suspicious,
that's all."
Hajjar rubbed his scraggly mustache. "I guess you'd know all about that. Not much to go on,
though."
"The plainclothes boys can work miracles some-times," Shaknahyi said, sounding very
sincere but wink-ing to let me know just how little regard he had for them.
"Yeah, you right," said Hajjar.
"By the way, Lieutenant," said Shaknahyi, "I was wondering if you wanted us to keep after
Abu Adil. We didn't get very far with him last week."
"You want to go out there again? To his house?"
'To his majestic palatial estate, you mean," I said.
Hajjar ignored me. "I didn't mean for you to perse-cute the guy. He throws a lot of weight in
this town."
"Uh huh," said Shaknahyi. "Anyway, we're not doing any persecuting."
"Why do you want to bother him again in the first place?" Hajjar looked at me, but I didn't
have an answer.
"I got a hunch that Abu Adil has some connection to these unsolved homicides," said
Shaknahyi.
"What unsolved homicides?" Hajjar demanded.
I could see Shaknahyi grit his teeth. "There've been three unsolved homicides in the last
couple of months. Four now, including her." He nodded toward Blanca's body, which the
M.E.'s boy had covered with a sheet. "They could be related, and they could be connected
to Reda Abu Adil."
"They're not unsolved homicides, for God's sake," said Hajjar angrily. "They're just open
files, that's all."
"Open files," said Shaknahyi. I could tell he was really disgusted. "You need us for anything
else, Lieutenant?"
"I guess not. You two can get back to work."
We left Hajjar and the detectives going over Blanca's remains and her clothes and the dust
and the moldy ruins of the house. Outside on the sidewalk, Shaknahyi pulled my arm and
stopped me before I got into the patrol car. "The hell was that about the bitch's missing
moddy?" he asked.
I laughed. "Just hot air, but Hajjar won't know the difference. Give him something to think
about, though, won't it?"
"It's good for the lieutenant to think about something now and then. His brain needs the
exercise." Shaknahyi grinned at me.
We were both ready to call it a day. The sky had clouded over and a brisk, hot wind blew grit
and smoke into our faces. Angry, grumbling thunder threatened from far away. Shaknahyi
wanted to go back to the station house, but I had something else to take care of first. I
undipped the phone from my belt and spoke Chili's commcode into it. I heard it ring eight or
nine times before she answered it. "Talk to me," she said. She sounded irked.
"Chiri? It's Marid."
"What do you want, motherfucker?"
"Look, you haven't given me any chance to explain. It's not my fault."
"You said that before." She gave a contemptuous laugh. "Famous last words, honey: 'It's not
my fault.' That's what my uncle said when he sold my mama to some goddamn Arab slaver."
"I never knew—"
"Forget it, it ain't even true. You wanted a chance to explain, so explain."
Well, it was show time, but suddenly I didn't have any idea what to say to her. "I'm real sorry,
Chiri," I said.
She just laughed again. It wasn't a friendly sound.
I plunged ahead. "One morning I woke up and Papa said, 'Here, now you own Chiriga's club,
isn't that wonder-ful?' What did you expect me to say to him?"
"I know you, honey. I don't expect yod to say any-thing to Papa. He didn't have to cut off your
balls. You sold "em."
I might have mentioned that Friedlander Bey had paid to have the punishment center of my
brain wired, and that he could stimulate it whenever he wanted. That's how he kept me in
line. But Chiri wouldn't have under-stood. I might have described the torment Papa could
cause me anytime he touched the right keypad. None of that was important to her. All she
knew was that I'd be-trayed her.
"Chiri, we been friends a long time. Try to under-stand. Papa got this idea to buy your club
and give it to me. I didn't know a thing about it in advance. I didn't want it when he gave it to
me. I tried to tell him, but—"
"I'll bet. I'll just bet you told him."
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I think she was enjoying this a lot. "I told him about
as much as anyone can tell Papa anything."
"Why my place, Marid? The Budayeen's full of crummy bars. Why did he pick mine?"
I knew the answer to that: because Friedlander Bey was prying me loose from the few
remaining connections to my old life. Making me a cop had alienated most of my friends.
Forcing Chiriga to sell her club had turned her against me. Next, Papa'd find a way to make
Saied the Half-Hajj hate my guts too. "Just his sense of humor,
Chiri," I said hopelessly. "Just Papa proving that he's al-ways around, always watching,
ready to hit us with his lightning bolts when we least expect it."
There was a long silence from her. "And you're gutless too."
My mouth opened and closed. I didn't know what she was talking about. "Huh?"
"I said you're a gutless panya."
She's always slinging Swahili at me. "What's a panya, Chiri?" I asked.
"It's like a big rat, only stupider and uglier. You didn't dare do this in person, did you,
motherfucker? You'd rather whine to me over the phone. Well, you're gonna have to face me.
That's all there is to it."
I squeezed my eyes shut and grimaced. "Okay, Chiri, whatever you want. Can you come by
the club?"
"The club, you say? You mean, my club? The club I used to own?"
"Yeah," I said. "Your club."
She grunted. "Not on your life, you diseased jackass. I'm not setting foot in there unless
things change the way I want 'em. But I'll meet you somewhere else. I'll be in Courane's place
in half an hour. That's not in the Budayeen, honey, but I'm sure you can find it. Show up if you
think you can handle it." There was a sharp click, and then I was listening to the burr of the
dial tone.
"Dragged you through it, didn't she?" said Shaknahyi. He'd enjoyed every moment of my
discom-fort. I liked the guy, but he was still a bastard sometimes.
I clipped the phone back on my belt. "Ever hear of a bar called Courane's?"
He snorted. "This Christian chump shows up in the city a few years ago." He was wheeling
the patrol car through Rasmiyya, a neighborhood east of the Budayeen that I'd never been in
before. "Guy named Courane. Called himself a poet, but nobody ever saw much proof of
that. Somehow he got to be a big hit with the European community. One day he opens what
he calls a salon, see. Just a quiet, dark bar where everything's made out of wicker and glass
and stainless steel. Lots of potted plastic plants. Nowadays he ain't the darling of the brunch
crowd anymore, but he still pulls this melancholy expatriate rou-tine."
"Like Weinraub on Gargotier's patio," I said.
"Yeah," said Shaknahyi, "except Courane owns his own dive. He stays in there and doesn't
bother anybody. Give him that much credit, anyway. That where you're gonna meet Chiri?"
I looked at him and shrugged. "It was her choice."
He grinned at me. "Want to attract a lot of attention when you show up?"
I sighed. "Please no," I muttered. That Jirji, he was some kidder.
Twenty minutes later we were in a middle-class dis-trict of two-and three-story houses. The
streets were broader than in the Budayeen, and the whitewashed buildings had strips of
open land around them, planted with small bushes and flowering shrubs. Tall date palms
leaned drunkenly along the verges of the pavement. The neighborhood seemed deserted, if
only because there were no shouting children wrestling on the sidewalks or chasing each
other around the corners of the houses. It was a very settled, very sedate part of town. It was
so peaceful, it made me uncomfortable.
"Courane's is just up here," said Shaknahyi. He turned into a poorer street that was little
more than an alley. One side was hemmed in by the back walls of the same flat-roofed
houses. There were small balconies on the second floor, and bright lamp-lit windows
obscured by lattices made of narrow wooden strips. On the other side of the alley were
boarded-up buildings and a few busi-nesses: a leatherworker's shop, a bakery, a restaurant
that specialized in bean dishes, a bookstall.
There was also Courane's, out of place in that con-stricted avenue. The proprietor had set
out a few tables, but no one lingered in the white-painted wicker chairs beneath these
Cinzano umbrellas. Shaknahyi tapped off the engine, and we got out of the patrol car. I
supposed that Chiri hadn't arrived yet, or that she was waiting for me inside. My stomach
hurt.
"Officer Shaknahyi!" A middle-aged man came to-ward us, a welcoming smile on his face.
He was about my height, maybe fifteen or twenty pounds heavier, with re-ceding brown hair
brushed straight back. He shook hands with Shaknahyi, then turned to me.
"Sandor," said Shaknahyi, "this is my partner, Marid Audran."
"Glad to meet you," said Courane.
"May Allah increase your honor," I said.
Courane's look was amused. "Right," he said. "Can I get you boys something to drink?"
I glanced at Shaknahyi. "Are we on duty?" I asked.
"Nah," he said. I asked for my usual, and Shaknahyi got a soft drink. We followed Courane
into his establish-ment. It was just as I'd pictured it: shiny chrome and glass tables, white
wicker chairs, a beautiful antique bar of pol-ished dark wood, chrome ceiling fans, and, as
Shaknahyi had mentioned, lots of dusty artificial plants stuck in cor-ners and hanging in
baskets from the ceiling.
Chiriga was sitting at a table near the back. "Where you at, Jirji? Marid?" she said.
"Aw right," I said. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Never in my life turned one down." She held up her glass. "Sandy?" Courane nodded and
went to make our drinks.
I sat down beside Chiri. "Anyway," I said uncomfort-ably, "I want to talk to you about coming
to work in the club."
"Yasmin mentioned something about that," Chiri said. "Kind of a ballsy thing for you to ask,
isn't it?"
"Hey, look, I told you what the situation was. How much longer you gonna keep this up?"
Chiri gave me a little smile. "I don't know," she said. "I'm getting a big kick out of it."
I'd reached my limit. I can only feel so guilty. "Fine," I said. "Go get another job someplace
else. I'm sure a big, strong kaffir like you won't have any trouble at all finding somebody
who's interested."
Chiri looked hurt. "Okay, Marid," she said softly, "let's stop." She opened her bag and took
out a long white envelope, and pushed it across the table toward me.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Yesterday's take from your goddamn club. You're supposed to show up around closing
time, you know, to count out the register and pay the girls. Or don't you care?"
"I don't really care," I said, peeking at the cash. There
was a lot of money in the envelope. "That's why I want to hire you."
"To do what?"
I spread my hands. "I want you to keep the girls in line. And I need you to separate the
customers from their money. You're famous for that. Just do exactly what you used to."
Her brow furrowed. "I used to go home every night with all of this." She tapped the envelope.
"Now I'm just gonna get a few kiam here and there, whatever you de-cide to spill. I don't like
that."
Courane arrived with our drinks and I paid for them. "I was gonna offer you a lot more than
what the debs and changes get," I said to Chiri.
"I should hope so." She nodded her head emphati-cally. "Bet your ass, honey, you want me
to run your club for you, you're gonna have to pay up front. Business is business, and action
is action. I want 50 percent."
"Making yourself a partner?" I'd expected something like that. Chiri smiled slowly, showing
those long, filed canines. She was worth more than 50 percent to me. "All right," I said.
She looked startled, as if she hadn't expected me to give in so easily. "Should've asked for
more," she said bitterly. "And I don't want to dance unless I feel like it."
"Fine."
"And the name of the club stays 'Chiriga's.' "
"All right."
"And you let me do my own hiring and firing. I don't want to get stuck with Floor-Show Fanya
if she tickles you into giving her a job. Bitch gets so loaded, she throws up on customers."
"You expect a hell of a lot, Chiri."
She gave me a wolfish grin. "Paybacks are a bitch, ain't they?" she said.
Chiri was wringing every last bit of advantage out of
this situation. "Okay, you pick your own crew."
She paused to drink again. "By the way," she said,
"that's 50 percent of the gross I'm getting, isn't it?"
Chiri was terrific. "Uh yeah," I said, laughing. "Why don't you let me give you a ride back to
the Budayeen? You can start working this afternoon."
"I already passed by there. I left Indihar in charge."
~She noticed that her glass was empty again, and she held it up and waved it at Courane.
"Want to play a game, Marid?" She jerked a thumb toward the back of the bar, where
Courane had a Transpex unit.
It's a game that lets two people with corymbic im-plants sit across from each other and chip
into the ma-chine's CPU. The first player imagines a bizarre scenario in detail, and it
becomes a wholly realistic environment for the second player, who's scored on how well he
adapts —or survives. Then in turn the second player does the same for the first.
It's a great game to bet money on. It scared the hell out of me at first, though, because while
you're playing, you forget it's only a game. It seems absolutely real. The players exercise
almost godlike power on each other. Courane's model looked old, a version whose safety
fea-tures could be bypassed by a clever mechanic. There were rumors of people actually
having massive strokes and coronaries while they were chipped into a jiggered Transpex.
"Go ahead, Audran," said Shaknahyi, "let's see what you got."
"All right, Chiri," I said, "let's play."
She stood up and walked back to the Transpex booth. I followed her, and both Shaknahyi
and Courane came along too. "Want to bet the other 50 percent of my club?"           : she said.
Her eyes glittered over the rim of her cocktail glass.
"Can't do that. Papa wouldn't approve." I felt pretty confident, because I could read the
record of the ma-chine's previous high games. A perfect Transpex score was 1,000 points,
and I averaged in the upper 800s. The top scores on this machine were in the lower 700s.
Maybe ' the scores were low because Courane's bar didn't attract many borderline nutso
types. Like me. "I'll bet what's inside this envelope, though."
That sounded good to her. "I can cover it," she said. I didn't doubt that Chiri could lay her
hands on quite a lot of cash when she needed it.
Courane set fresh drinks down for all of us. Shaknahyi dragged a wicker chair near enough
to watch the com-puter-modelled images of the illusions Chiri and I would
create. I fed five kiam into the Transpex machine. "You can go first, if you want," I said.
"Yeah," said Chiri. "It's gonna be fun, making you sweat." She took one of the Transpex's
moddy links and socketed it on her corymbic plug, then touched Player One on the console. I
took the second link, murmured "Bismillah," and chipped in Player Two.
At first there was only a kind of warm, flickering fog, veined with iridescence like shimmery
mother of pearl. Audran was lost in a cloud, but he didn 't feel anxious about it. It was
absolutely silent and still, not even a whisper of breeze. He was aware of a mild scent
surround-ing him, the fragrance of fresh sea air. Then things began to change.
Now he was floating in the cloud, no longer sitting or standing, but somehow drifting through
space easily and peacefully. Audran still wasn 't concerned; it was a per-fectly comfortable
sensation. Only gradually did the fog begin to dissipate. With a shock Audran realized that
he wasn't floating, but swimming in a warm, sun-dappled sea.
Below him waved long tendrils of algae that clung to hillocks of brightly colored coral.
Anemones of many hues and many shapes reached their grasping tentacles toward him, but
he cut smartly through the water well out of their reach.
Audran's eyesight was poor, but his other senses let him know what was happening around
him. The smell of the salt air had been replaced by many subtle aromas that he couldn't
name but were all achingly familiar. Sounds came to him, sibilant, rushing noises that
echoed in hol-low tones.
He was a fish. He felt free and strong, and he was hungry. Audran dived down close to the
rolling sea bot-tom, near the stinging anemones where tiny fishes schooled for protection.
He flashed among them, gobbling down mouthfuls of the scarlet and yellow creatures. His
hunger was appeased, at least for now. The scent of others of his species wafted by him on
the current, and he turned toward its source.
He swam for a long while until he realized that he'd lost the trace. Audran couldn 't tell how
much time had passed. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered here in the sparkling, sunny seas.
He browsed over a gorgeous reef, worrying the delicate feather dusters, sending the
scarlet-banded shrimps and the porcelain crabs scuttling.
Above him, the ocean darkened. A shadow passed over him, and Audranfelt a ripple of
alarm. He could not look up, but compression waves told him that something huge was
circling nearby. Audran remembered that he was not alone in this ocean: It was now his turn
to flee. He darted down over the reef and cut a zigzag path only a few inches above the
sandy floor.
The ravenous shadow trailed close behind. Audran looked for somewhere to hide, but there
was nothing, no sunken wrecks or rocks or hidden caves. He made a sharp evasive turn and
raced back the way he'd come. The thing that stalked him followed lazily, easily.
Suddenly it dived on him, a voracious, mad engine of murder, all dead black eyes and
gleaming chrome-steel teeth. Flushed from the sea bottom, Audran knifed up through the
green water toward the surface, though he knew there was no shelter there. The great beast
raged close behind him. In a froth of boiling seafoam, Audran broke through the waves, into
the fearfully thin air, and —-flew. He glided over the white-capped water until, at last, he fell
back into the welcoming element, exhausted.
And the nightmare creature was there, its ghastly mouth yawning wide to rend him. The
daggered jaws closed slowly, victoriously, until for Audran there was only blackness and the
knowledge of the agony to come.
"Jeez," I murmured, when the Transpex returned my consciousness.
"Some game," said Shaknahyi.
"How'd I do?" asked Chiri. She sounded exhilarated.
"Pretty good," said Courane. "Six hundred twenty-three. It was a promising scenario, but you
never got him to panic."
"I sure as hell tried," she said. "I want another drink." She gave me a quirky grin.
I took out my pillcase and swallowed eight Paxium with a mouthful of gin. Maybe as a fish I
hadn't been paralyzed with fear, but I was feeling a strong nervous
reaction now. "I want another drink too," I said. "I'll stand a round for everybody."
"Bigshot," said Shaknahyi.
Both Chiri and I waited until our heartbeats slowed down to normal. Courane brought a tray
with the fresh drinks, and I watched Chiri throw hers down in two long gulps. She was
fortifying herself for whatever evil things I was going to do to her mind. She was going to
need it.
Chiri touched Player Two on the game's console, and I saw her eyes slowly close. She
looked like she was nap-ping placidly. That was going to end in a hell of a hurry. On the
holoscreen was the same opalescent haze I'd wan-dered through until Chiri'd decided it was
the ocean. I reached out and touched the Player One panel.
Audran gazed down upon the ball of mist, like Allah in the highest of the heavens. He
concentrated on build-ing a richly detailed illusion, and he was pleased with his progress.
Instead of letting it take on form and reality gradually, Audran loosed an explosion of sensory
infor-mation. The woman far below was stunned by the purity of color in this world, the clarity
of sound, the intensity of the tastes and textures and smells. She cried out and her voice
pealed in the cool, clean air like a carillon. She fell to her knees, her eyes shut tightly and her
hands over her ears.
Audran was patient. He wanted the woman to explore his creation. He wasn 't going to hide
behind a tree, jump out and frighten her. There was time enough for terror later.
After a while the woman lowered her hands and stood up. She looked around uncertainly.
"Marid?" she called. Once again the sound of her own voice rang with unnatural sharpness.
She glanced behind her, toward the misty purple mountains in the west. Then she turned
back to the east, toward the shore of a marshy lake that re-flected the impossible azure of
the sky. Audran didn 't care which direction she chose; it would all be the same in the end.
The woman decided to follow the swampy shoreline to the southeast. She walked for hours,
listening to the liquid trilling of songbirds and inhaling the poignant perfume of unknown
blossoms. After a while the sun rested on the shoulders of the purple hills behind her, and
then slipped away, leaving Audran 's illusion in darkness. He provided a full moon, huge and
gleaming silver like a serving platter. The woman grew weary, and at last she decided to lie
down in the sweet-smelling grass and sleep.
Audran woke her in the morning with a gentle rain shower. "Marid?" she cried again. He
would not answer her. "How long you gonna leave me here?" She shivered.
The golden sun mounted higher, and while it warmed the morning, the heat never became
stifling. Just after noon, when the woman had walked almost halfway around the lake, she
came upon a pavilion made all of crimson and sapphire-blue silk. "What the hell is all this,
Marid?" the woman shouted. "Just get it over with, all right?"
The woman approached the pavilion anxiously. "Hello?" she called.
A moment later a young woman in a white gown came out of the pavilion. Her feet were bare
and her pale blond hair was thrown carelessly over one shoulder. She was smiling and
carrying a wooden tray. "Hungry?" she asked in a friendly voice.
"Yes," said the woman.
"My name is Maryam. I've been waiting for you. I'm sorry, all I've got is bread and fresh milk."
She poured from a silver pitcher into a silver goblet.
"Thanks." The woman ate and drank greedily.
Maryam shaded her eyes with one hand. "Are you going to the fair?"
The woman shook her head. "I don't know about any fair."
Maryam laughed. "Everybody goes to the fair. Come on, I'll take you."
The woman waited while Maryam disappeared into the pavilion again with the breakfast
things. She came back out a moment later. "We're all set now," she said gaily. "We can get
to know each other while we walk."
They continued around the lake until the woman saw a scattering of large peaked tents of
striped canvas, all with colorful pennants snapping in the breeze. She heard many people
laughing and shouting, and the sound of axes biting wood, and metal ringing on metal. She
could smell bread baking, and cinnamon buns, and lamb roast
ing on spits turning slowly over glowing coals. Her mouth began to water, and she felt her
excitement growing de-spite herself.
"I don't have any money to spend," she said.
"Money?" Maryam asked, laughing. "What is money?"
The woman spent the afternoon going from tent to
tent, seeing the strange exhibits and miraculous enter-tainments. She sampled exotic foods
and drank concoc-tions of unknown liquors. Now and then she remembered to be afraid.
She looked over her shoulder, wondering when the pleasant face of this fantasy would fall
away. "Martd," she called, "what are you doing?"
"Who are you calling?" asked Maryam.
"I'm not sure," said the woman.
Maryam laughed. "Look over here, "she said, pulling on the woman's sleeve, showing her a
booth where a heav-ily muscled woman was shaping a disturbing collage from the claws,
teeth, and eyes of lizards.
They listened to children playing strange music on instruments made from the carcasses of
small animals,
and then they watched several old women spin their own
white hair into thread, and then weave it into napkins
and scarves.
One of the toothless hags leered at Maryam and the woman. "Take," she said in a gravelly
voice.
"Thank you, Grandmother," said Maryam. She se-lected a pair of human-hair handkerchiefs.
The hours wore on, and at last the sun began to set. The moon rose as full as yester eve. "Is
this going to go on all night?" the woman asked.
"All night and all day tomorrow," said Maryam. "Forever."
The woman shuddered.
From that moment she couldn't shake a growing dread, a sense that she'd been lured to
this place and
abandoned. She remembered nothing of who she'd been before she'd awakened beside
the lake, but she felt she'd
been horribly tricked. She prayed to someone called Marid. She wondered if that was
God.
"Marid,"' she murmured fearfully, "I wish you'd just end this already."
But Audran was not ready to end it. He watched as the woman and Maryam grew sleepy
and found a large tent filled with comfortable cushions and sheets of satin   t and fine linen.
They laid themselves down and slept.        In the morning the woman arose, dismayed to be
still trapped at the eternal fair. Maryam found them a good breakfast of sausage, fried
bread, broiled tomatoes, and hot tea. Maryam's enthusiasm was undiminished, and she led
the woman toward still more disquieting entertain-ments. The woman, however, felt only a
crazily mounting dread.
"You've had me here for two days, Marid," she
pleaded. "Please kill me and let me go." Audran gave her
no sign, no answer. ,
They passed the third day examining one dismaying: thing after another: teenage girls who
seemed to have living roses in place of breasts; a candlemaker whose wares would not
provide light in the presence of an infi-del; staged combat between a blind man and two
mad-dened dragons; a family hammering together a scale model of the fair out of iron, a
project that had occupied them for generations and that might never be completed; a cage
of crickets that had been taught to chirp the Shahada, the Islamic testament of faith.
The afternoon passed, and once again night began to fall. All through the fair, men jammed
blazing torches into iron sconces on tall poles. Still Maryam led the woman from tent to tent,
but the woman no longer en-joyed the spectacles. She was filled with a sense of im-pending
catastrophe. She felt an urgent need to escape, but she knew she couldn 't even find her
way out of the infinite fairgrounds.
And then a shrill, buzzing alarm sounded. "What's that?" she asked, startled. All around her,
people had begun to flee. "Yallah!" cried Maryam, her face stricken with horror. "Run! Run
and save your life!"
"What is it?" the woman shouted. "Tell me what it is!"
Maryam had collapsed to the ground, weeping and moaning. "In the name of Allah, the
Beneficent, the Merciful, "she muttered over and over again. The woman        * could get
nothing more sensible from her.
The woman left her there, and she followed the stream of terrified people as they ran among
the tents.
And then the woman saw them: two immense giants, im-possibly huge, hundreds of feet tall,
crushing the land-scape as they came nearer. They waded among the distant mountains,
and then the shocks from their jolting foot-steps began to churn the water in the lake. The
ground heaved as they came nearer. The woman raised a hand to her breast, then
staggered backward a few steps.
One of the giants turned his head slowly and looked straight at her. He was horribly ugly, with
a great scar across one empty eye socket and a mouthful of rotten, snaggled fangs. He
lifted an arm and pointed to her.
"No," she said, her voice hoarse with fear, "not me!" She wanted to run but she couldn't
move. The giant stooped toward her, fierce and glowering. He bent to cap-ture her in his
enormous hand.
"Marid!" the woman screamed. "Please!" Nothing happened. The giant's fist began to close
around her.
The woman tried to reach up and unplug the moddy link, but her arms were frozen. She
wouldn't escape that easily. The woman shrieked as she realized she couldn't even jack out.
The disfigured giant lifted her off the ground and drew her close to his single eye. His horrid
grin spread and he laughed at her terror. His stinking breath sickened the woman. She
struggled again to lift her hands, to pull the moddy link free. Her arms were held fast. She
screamed and screamed, and then at last she fainted.
My eyes were bleary for a moment, and I could hear Chiri panting for breath beside me. I
didn't think she'd be so upset. After all, it was only a Transpex game, and it wasn't the first
time she'd ever played. She knew what to expect.
"You're a sick motherfucker, Marid," she said at last.
"Listen, Chiri, I was just—"
She waved a hand at me. "I know, I know. You won the game and the bet. I'm still just a little
shook, that's all. I'll have your money for you tonight."
"Forget the money, Chiri, I—"
I shouldn't have said that. "Hey, you son of a bitch, when I lose a bet I pay up. You're gonna
take the money or I'm gonna cram it down your throat. But, God, you've got some kind of
twisted imagination." "That last part," said Courane, "where she couldn't raise her hands to
pop the moddy link, that was real cold." He said it approvingly.
"Hell of a sadistic thing to do," said Chiri, shivering. "Last time I ever touch a Transpex with
you."
"A few extra points, that's all, Chiri. I didn't know what my score was. I might have needed a
couple more points."
"You finished with 941," said Shaknahyi. He was look-ing at me oddly, as if he were
impressed by my score and repelled at the same time. "We got to go." He stood up and
tossed down the last slug of his soft drink.
I stood up too. "You all right now, Chiri?" I put my hand on her shoulder.
"I'm fine. I'm still shaking off the game. It was like a nightmare." She took a deep breath and
let it out. "I got to get back to the club so Indihar can go home."
"Give you a ride?" asked Shaknahyi.
"Thanks," said Chiri, "but I got my own transporta-tion."
"See you later then," I said.
"Kwa heri, you bastard." At least she was smiling when she called me that. I thought maybe
things were okay between us again. I was real glad about that.
Outside, Shaknahyi shook his head and grinned. "She was right, you know. That was a hell
of a sadistic thing. Like unnecessary torture. You are a sick son of a bitch."
"Maybe."
"And I got to ride around the city with you."
I was tired of talking about it. "Time to check out yet?" I asked.
"Just about. Let's pass by the station house, and then why don't you come home with me for
dinner? You got plans already? You think Friedlander Bey can get along without you for one
night?"
I'm not a very sociable person, and I always feel un-comfortable in other people's homes.
Still, the idea of spending an evening away from Papa and his Circus of Thrills was
immensely attractive. "Sure," I said.
"Let me call my wife and find out if tonight's okay."
"I didn't even know you were married, Jirji."
He just raised his eyebrows at me and spoke his commcode into the phone. He had a brief
conversation
with his wife and then clipped the phone back on his belt. "She says it's okay," he said.
"Now she's got to run around cleaning and cooking. She always goes crazy when I bring
somebody home."
"She don't have to do that just for me," I said.
Shaknahyi shook his head. "It's not for you, believe me. She comes from this old-fashioned
family, and she's all the time got to prove she's the perfect Muslim wife."
We stopped at the station house, turned the patrol car over to the guys on the night shift, and
checked in briefly with Hajjar. Finally we logged out and headed back downstairs to the
street. "I usually walk home unless it's pouring rain," said Shaknahyi.
"How far is it?" I asked. It was a pleasant evening, but I wasn't looking forward to a long
walk.
"Maybe three, three-and-a-half miles." "Forget it," I said. "I'll spring for a cab." There are
always seven or eight taxis waiting for fares on the Boule-vard il-Jameel, near the
Budayeen's eastern gate. I looked for my friend Bill, but I didn't see him. We got into
an-other cab, and Shaknahyi gave the driver his address.
It was an apartment house in the part of town called Haffe al-Khala, the Edge of the
Wilderness. Shaknahyi and his family lived about as far south as you could go in the city, so
near the desert that mounds of sand like infant dunes had crept up against the walls of the
buildings. There were no trees or flowers on these streets. It was bare and quiet and dead,
as cheerless as any place I've ever seen.
Shaknahyi must have guessed what I was thinking. "This is all I can afford," he said sourly.
"Come on, though. : It's better inside."
I followed him into the foyer of the apartment house, and then upstairs to his flat on the third
floor. He unlocked the front door and was immediately tackled by two small children. They
clung to his legs as he came into the parlor. Shaknahyi bent down laughing, and rested his
hands on the boys' heads. "My sons," he said to me proudly. "This is Little Jirji, he's eight,
and Hakim, he's four. Zahra's six. She's probably getting in her mother's way in the kitchen."
Well, I don't have much patience with kids. I suppose they're fine for other people, but I've
never really understood what they're for. I can be polite about them when I have to, though.
"Your sons are very handsome," I said. "They do you honor."
"It is as Allah pleases," said Shaknahyi. He was beaming like a goddamn searchlight.
He dislodged Little Jirji and Hakim and, to my dismay, left me alone with them while he went
in to see how supper was progressing. I didn't actually bear these children any ill will, but my
philosophy of raising kids is kind of extreme. I think you should keep a baby around for a few
days after it's born—until the novelty wears off—and then you put it in a big cardboard box
with all the best
books of Eastern and Western civilization. Then you bury the box and dig it up again when
the kid's eighteen. I watched uneasily as first Little Jirji and then Hfikim realized I was sitting
on the couch. Hakim lurched toward me, a bright red toy figure in his right hand, another in
his    | mouth. "What do I do now?" I muttered.
"How you boys getting along out here?" said Shaknahyi. I was saved. He came back into
the parlor and
sat beside me in an old, shabby armchair.
"Great," I said. I said a little prayer to Allah. This   I looked like it could be a long night.
A very pretty, very serious-faced girl came into the room, carrying a china plate of hummus
and bread. Shaknahyi took the plate from her and kissed her on both cheeks. "This is Zahra,
my little princess," he said. "Zahra, this is Uncle Marid." Uncle Marid! I'd never heard
anything so grotesque in my entire life.
Zahra looked up at me, blushed furiously, and ran back into the kitchen while her father
laughed. I've al-ways had that effect on women.
Shaknahyi indicated the plate of hummus. "Please," he said, "refresh yourself."
"May your prosperity increase, Jirji," I said.
"May God lengthen your life. I'm gonna get us some tea." He got up again and went back
into the kitchen.
I wished he'd stop fussing. It made me nervous, and it left me outnumbered by the kids. I tore
off some bread and dipped it in the hummus, keeping a careful eye on Little Jirji and Hakim.
They seemed to be playing together peacefully, apparently paying no attention to me at all;
but I wasn't going to be lulled so easily.
Shaknahyi came back in a few minutes. "I think you know my wife," he said. I looked up. He
was standing there with Indihar. He was grinning his damnfool grin, but she looked
absolutely pissed.
I stood up, bewildered. "Indihar, how you doing?" I said. I felt like a fool. "I didn't even know
you were mar-ried."
"Nobody's supposed to know," she said. She glared at her husband, then she turned and
glared at me.
"It's all right, sweetheart," Shaknahyi said. "Marid won't tell anybody, right?"
"Marid is a—" Indihar began, but then she remem-bered that I was a guest in her home. She
lowered her eyes modestly to the floor. "You honor our family with your visit, Marid," she
said.
I didn't know what to say. This was a major shock: Indihar as beautiful Budayeen dancer by
day, demure Muslim wife by night. "Please," I said uncomfortably, "don't go to any trouble for
me."
Indihar flicked her eyes at me before she led Zahra out of the room. I couldn't read what she
was thinking.
"Have some tea," said Shaknahyi. "Have some more hummus. "Hakim had at last found the
courage to look me over. He grabbed my legend drooled on my pants.
This was going to be even worse than I'd feared.
It was Shaknahyi's small brown notebook, the one he'd carried in his hip pocket. The first
time I'd seen it was U when we'd investigated Blanca's murder. Now I stared at its vinyl
cover, smeared with bloody fingerprints, and wondered about Shaknahyi's coded entries. I
supposed I was going to have to find out what they all meant.
This was a week after my visit to Jirji and Indihar's apartment. The day had started off on a
low note and it never improved. I looked up to see Kmuzu standing be-side my bed holding
a tray of orange juice, toast, and coffee. I guess he'd been waiting for my wake-up daddy to
kick in. He looked so sick that I almost felt sorry for the poor sucker. "Good morning, yaa
Sidi," he said softly.
I felt like hell too. "Where are my clothes?"
Kmuzu winced. "I don't know, yaa Sidi. I don't re-member what you did with them last night."
I didn't remember much either. There was nothing but sick blackness from the time I came in
the front door late last night until just a moment ago. I crawled out of bed naked, my head
throbbing, my stomach threatening immediate upheaval. "Help me find my jeans," I said.
"My pillcase is in my jeans."
"This is why the Lord forbids drinking," said Kmuzu, I glanced at him; his eyes were closed
and he was still holding the tray, but it was tilting dangerously. There was going to be coffee
and orange juice all over my bed in a few seconds. That wasn't important to me right then.
My clothes weren't under the bed, which was the logical place to look. They weren't in the
closet, and they weren't in the dressing room or the bathroom. I looked on the table in the
dining area and in my small kitchen. No luck. I finally found my shoes and shirt rolled up in a
ball in
the bookcase, crammed between some paperback novels by Lutfy Gad, a Palestinian
detective writer of the middle twenty-first century. My jeans had been folded neatly and
hidden on my desk beneath several thick sheaves of com-puter printout.
I didn't even put the pants on. I just grabbed the pillcase and hurried back into the bedroom.
My plan was to swallow some opiates, maybe a dozen Sonneine, with the orange juice.
Too late. Kmuzu was staring down in horror at the sticky, sweet-smelling puddle on my
bedclothes. He looked up at me. "I'll clean this up," he said, gulping down a wave of nausea,
"immediately." His expression said that he expected to lose his comfortable job in the Big
House, and be sent out to the dusty fields with the other unskilled brutes.
"Don't worry about it right now, Kmuzu. Just hand me that cup of—"
There was a gentle scraping sound as the coffee cup and saucer slid southward and
tumbled over the edge of the tray. I looked at the ruined sheets. At least you couldn't see the
orange juice stain anymore.
"Yaa Sidi—"
"I want a glass of water, Kmuzu. Right now."
It had been a hell of a night. I'd had the bright idea to go to the Budayeen after work. "I
haven't had a night out in a long time," I said to Kmuzu when he arrived to pick me up at the
station house.
"The master of the house is pleased that you're con-centrating on your work."
"Yeah, you right, but that don't mean I can't see my friends now and then." I gave him
directions to Jo-Mama's Greek club.
"If you do this, you will not get home until late, yaa Sidi."
"I know it'll be late. Would you rather I went out drinking in the morning?"
"You must be at the station house in the morning."
"That's a long time from now," I pointed out.
"The master of the house—"
"Turn left here, Kmuzu. Now!" I wasn't going to lis-ten to any more argument. I guided him
northwest through the twisting streets of the city. We left the car on
the boulevard and walked through the gate into the Budayeen.
Jo-Mama's club was on Third Street, jammed tight against the high northern wall of the
quarter. Rocky, the relief barmaid, frowned at me when I took a stool at the front bar. She
was short and hefty with brushy black hair, and she didn't look glad to see me. "Ya want to
see my manager's license, cop?" she said in a sour voice.
"Get a grip, Rocky. I just want a gin and bingara." I turned to Kmuzu, who was still standing
behind me. "Grab a seat," I told him.
"Who's this?" said Rocky. "Your slave or something?"
I nodded. "Give him the same."
Kmuzu raised a hand. "Just some club soda, please," he said. Rocky glanced at me, and I
shook my head slightly.
Jo-Mama came out of her office and grinned at me. "Marid, where y'at? You ain't been
comin' around no more."
"Been busy," I said. Rocky set a drink in front of me and an identical one in front of Kmuzu.
Jo-Mama smacked his shoulder. "You know your boss here got some guts," she said
admiringly.
"I've heard the stories," said Kmuzu.
"Yeah, ain't we all?" said Rocky. Her lip curled just a
little.
Kmuzu sipped his gin and bingara and grimaced. "This club soda tastes strange," he said.
"It's the lime juice," I said hastily.
"Yeah, I put some lime in it for ya," said Rocky.
"Oh," said Kmuzu. He took another taste.
Jo-Mama snorted. She's the largest woman I've ever met—big, strong, and often friendly.
She has a loud, gruff voice and a remarkable memory for who owes her money and who's
done her dirt. When she laughs, you see beer splash out of glasses all around the bar; and
when she gets angry, you don't hang around long enough to see any-thing. "Your friends are
at a table in the back," she said.
"Who?"
"Mahmoud and the Half-Hajj and that snotty Chris-tian."
"Used to be my friends," I said. Jo-Mama shrugged. I
picked up my drink and went deeper into the dark cavern of the club. Kmuzu followed me.
Mahmoud, Jacques, Saied, and Saied's adolescent American lover, Abdul-Hassan, were
sitting at a table near the edge of the stage. They didn't see me at first because they were
appraising the dancer, a stranger to me but clearly a real girl. I moved a couple of chairs up
to their table, and Kmuzu and I sat down.
"How ya doin', Marid?" said the Half-Hajj.
"Look who it is," said Mahmoud. "Come in to inspect the permits?"
"That's a bum line I heard already from Rocky,"
It didn't bother Mahmoud. Although as a girl he'd been lithe and pretty enough to dance here
in Jo-Mama's club, he'd put on weight and muscle after the sexchange. I wouldn't want to
fight him to see which of us was tougher.
"Why are we watching this bint?" asked Saied. Ab-dul-Hassan was glaring spitefully at the
girl on stage. The Half-Hajj was teaching him well.
"She's not so bad," said Jacques, giving us the benefit of his militantly conventional
viewpoint. "She's very pretty, don't you think?"
Saied spat on the floor. "The debs on the Street are prettier."
"The debs on the Street are constructs," said Jacques. "This girl's natural."
"Shellfish toxin is natural, if that's what you care about," said Mahmoud. "I'd rather watch
somebody who's spent some time and effort making herself look good."
"Someone who's spent a fortune on bodmods, you mean," said Jacques.
"What's her name?" I asked.
They ignored my question. "You hear that Blanca's dead?" Jacques said to Mahmoud.
"Probably beaten to death in a police riot," Mahmoud replied. His eyes flicked at me.
I wasn't going to put up with any more of this. I got out of my chair. "Finish your . . . club
soda," I said to Kmuzu.
Saied stood up and came closer to me. "Hey, Marid," he whispered, "don't pay any attention
to 'em. They're just trying to bubble your bile."
"It's working," I said.
"They'll get tired of it soon, fiverything'll go back the way it used to be."
I downed the rest of my drink. "Sure," I said, sur-prised by Saied's naivete. Abdul-Hassan
gave me a flirta-tious look, batting his thick eyelashes. I wondered what sex he'd be when he
grew up.
Jo-Mama had disappeared into her office again, and Rocky didn't bother saying goodbye.
Kmuzu trailed me out of the bar. "Well," I said to him, "enjoying yourself?"
He gave me a blank stare. He didn't look pleased.
"We'll pass by Chiri's," I told him. "If anybody even looks at me cross-eyed in there, I can
throw him out. It's my club." I liked the way that sounded.
I led Kmuzu south, and then turned up the Street. He came along with a solemn and
disapproving look on his face. He wasn't the perfect drinking companion, but he was loyal. I
knew he wouldn't abandon me if he met some hot girl somewhere.
"Why don't you loosen up?" I asked him.
"It's not my job to be loose," he said.
"You're a slave. It's your job to be what I tell you to be. Gear down a. little."
I got a nice welcome when I went into the club. "Here he comes, ladies," called Chiri, "the
boss man." This time she didn't sound bitter when she called me that. There were three
sexchanges and two debs working with her. The real girls were all on the day shift with
Indihar.
It felt great to feel at home somewhere. "How's it going, Chiri?" I asked.
She looked disgusted. "Slow night," she said. "No money."
"You always say that." I went down and took my usual seat at the far end of the bar, where it
curved around toward the stage. I could sit there and look down the whole length of the bar,
and see anybody coming into the club. Kmuzu sat beside me.
Chiri flipped a cork coaster toward me. I tapped the place in front of Kmuzu, and Chiri
nodded. "Who is this handsome devil?" she asked.
"His name's Kmuzu," I said. "He's uncommunica-tive."
Chiri grinned. "I can fix that. Where you from, honey?" she asked.
He spoke to Chiri in some African language, but nei-ther she nor I understood a word of it.
"I'm Sidi Martd's slave," he said.
Chiri was dismayed. She was almost speechless. "Slave? Forgive me for saying it,
sweetie, but being a slave's nothing to brag about. You can't really make it sound like an
achievement, you know?"
Kmuzu shook his head. "There is a long story behind it."
"I guess so," said Chiri, looking at me for an explana-tion.
"If there's a story, nobody's told me," I said.
"Papa just gave him to you, right? Like he gave you the club." I nodded. Chiri put a gin and
bingara on my coaster and another in front of Kmuzu. "If I was you," she said, "I'd be careful
what I unwrapped under his Christ-mas tree from now on."
Yasmin watched me for half an hour before she came up to say hello, and then only because
the other two changes were kissing on me and rubbing themselves up against me, trying to
get in good with the new owner. It was working, too. "You come a long way, Marid," Yasmin
said.
I shrugged. "I feel like I'm still the same simple noraf I've always been."
"You know that's not true."
"Well, I owe it all to you. You're the one who bullied me into getting my skull amped, doing
what Papa wanted."
Yasmin looked away. "Yeah, I guess so." She turned toward me again. "Listen, Marid, I'm
sorry if—"
I put my hand on hers. "Don't ever say you're sorry, Yasmin. We got past all that a long time
ago."
She looked grateful. "Thanks, Marid." She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then
she hurried back down the bar where two dark-skinned merchant seamen had taken seats.
The rest of the night passed quickly. I downed one drink after another, and I made sure that
Kmuzu did the same. He still thought he was drinking club soda with some strange lime juice
in it.
Somewhere along the line I began to get drunk, and Kmuzu must have been nearly helpless.
I recall Chiri closing the bar about three in the morning. She counted out the register and
gave me the money. I gave half the receipts back to her as per our agreement, then paid
Yasmin and the other four their wages. I still ended up with another thick wad of bills for
myself.
I got a very enthusiastic goodnight kiss from a change named Lily, and a slip of paper with a
commcode from someone named Rani. I think Rani gave a slip of paper to Kmuzu too, just
to cover her bets.
That's when I really blacked out. I don't know how Kmuzu and I got home, but we didn't bring
the car with us. I guess Chiri called us a cab. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed
and Kmuzu was about to spill or-ange juice and hot coffee all over me.
"Where's that water?" I called. I stumbled around my suite, holding the sunnies in one hand
and my shoes in the other.
"Here, yaa Sidi."
I took the glass from him and swallowed the tabs. "There's a couple left for you," I said.
He looked appalled. "I can't—"
"It's not recreational. It's medicine." Kmuzu over-came his aversion to drugs long enough to
take a single Sonneine.
I was still far from sober, and the sunnies I'd taken didn't help steady me. I didn't hurt
anymore, but I was only vaguely conscious. I dressed quickly without paying much attention
to what I put on. Kmuzu offered me breakfast, but the whole idea turned my stomach; for
once, Kmuzu didn't badger me into eating. I think he was glad not to have to cook.
We stumbled blearily downstairs. I called a taxi to take me to work, and Kmuzu came with
me to pick up the sedan. In the cab, I let my head fall back against the seat, and I closed my
eyes and listened to peculiar noises inside my head. My ears were thrumming like the
engine room of an ancient tugboat.
"May your day be blessed," said Kmuzu, when we got to the station house.
"May I live to see lunch, you mean," I said. I got out of
the cab and pushed my way through my crowd of young fans, throwing them a little money.
Sergeant Catavina gave me a jaundiced look when I got to my cubicle. "You don't look well,"
he said.
"I don't feel well."
Catavina clucked his tongue. "I'll tell you what I do when I get a little hung over."
"You don't show up for work," I said, dropping into my molded plastic chair. I didn't feel like
conversing with him.
"That always works too," he said. He turned and left my cubicle. He didn't seem to like me,
and I didn't seem to care.
Shaknahyi came by fifteen minutes later. I was still staring at my data deck, unable to dig
into the mound of paperwork that waited on my desk. "Where you at?" he said. He didn't
wait for an answer. "Hajjar wants to see us both right now."
"I'm not available," I said glumly.
"I'll tell him that. Come on, move your ass."
I followed him reluctantly down the corridor to Haj-jar's little glass-walled office. We stood in
front of his desk while he toyed with a small pile of paper clips. After a few seconds he
looked up and studied us. It was a careful act. He had something difficult to tell us, and he
wanted us to know that It Would Hurt Him More Than It Hurt Us. "I don't like havin' to do this,"
he said. He looked real sad.
"Just skip it then, Lieutenant," I said. "Come on, Jirji, let's leave him alone."
"Shut up, Audran," said Hajjar. "We got an official complaint from Reda Abu Adil. I thought I
told you to lay off him." We hadn't gone out to see Abu Adil again, but we'd been talking to
as many of his crummy underlings as we could corner.
"Okay," said Shaknahyi, "we'll lay off."
"The investigation is finished. We compiled all the information we need."
"Okay," said Shaknahyi.
"You both understand? Leave Abu Adil alone from now on. We ain't got a thing on him. He's
not under any kind of suspicion."
"Right," said Shaknahyi.
Hajjar looked at me. "Fine," I said.


Hajjar nodded. "Okay. Now I got somethin' else I want you two to check out." He handed
Shaknahyi a sheet of pale blue paper.
Shaknahyi glanced at it. "This address is right nearby," he said.
"Uh huh," said Hajjar. "There been some complaints from people in the neighborhood.
Looks like another baby peddler, but this guy's got an ugly wrinkle. If this On Cheung's there,
cuff him and bring him in. Don't worry about evidence; we'll make some up later if you don't
find nothin'. If he ain't there, go through what you find and bring the good stuff back here."
"What do we charge him with?" I asked.
Hajjar shrugged. "Don't need to charge him with nothing. He'll hear all about it soon enough
at his trial."
I looked at Shaknahyi; he shrugged. This was how the police department used to operate in
the city a few years ago. Lieutenant Hajjar must have gotten nostalgic for the good old days
before due process.
Shaknahyi and I left Hajjar's office and headed toward the elevator. He jammed the blue
paper in his shirt pocket. "This won't take long," he said. "Then we can get something to
eat." The idea of food-nauseated me; I real-ized that I was still half-loaded. I prayed to Allah
that my condition wouldn't get us into trouble on the street.
We drove about six blocks to an area of crumbling red brick tenements. Children played in
the street, kicking a soccer ball back and forth and leaping on each other with loud shrieks.
"Yaa Sidi! Yaa Sidi!" they cried when I got out of the copcar. I realized that some of them
were the kids I distributed cash to every morning.
"You're becoming a celebrity in this neighborhood," Shaknahyi said with some amusement.
Groups of men were sitting in front of the tenements on battered kitchen chairs, drinking tea
and arguing and watching traffic go by. Their conversation died as soon as        . we
appeared. They watched us walk by with narrowed,        f hate-filled eyes. I could hear them
muttering about us as we passed.
Shaknahyi consulted the blue sheet and checked the address of one of the tenements. "This
is it," he said. There was a dark storefront on the ground floor, its display window obscured
by flattened cardboard boxes taped in place on the inside.
"Looks abandoned," I said.
Shaknahyi nodded and walked back to where some of the men were watching us closely.
"Anybody know any-thing about this On Cheung?" he asked.
The men looked at each other, but none of them said anything.
"Bastard's been buying kids. You seen him?"
I didn't think any of the unshaven, hungry-looking men would help us, but finally one of them
stood up. "I'D talk to you," he said. The others mocked him and spat at his heels as he
followed Shaknahyi and me down the side-walk.
"What you know about it?" Shaknahyi asked.
"This On Cheung shows up a few months ago," said the man. He looked over his shoulder
nervously. "Every day, women come here to his shop. They bring children, they go inside. A
little while later they come out again, but they don't come out with the children."
"What does he do with the kids?" I asked.
"He breaks their legs," said the man. "He cuts off their hands or pulls out their tongues so
people will feel sorry for them and give them money. Then he sells them to slavemasters
who put them on the street to beg. Some-times he sells the older girls to pimps."
"On Cheung would be dead by sundown if Fried-lander Bey knew about this," I said.
Shaknahyi looked at me like I was a fool. He turned back to our informant. "How much does
he pay for a kid?"
"I don't know," said the man. "Three, maybe five hundred kiam. Boys are worth more than
girls. Some-times pregnant women come to him from other parts of the city. They stay a
week, a month. Then they go home and tell their family that the baby died." He shrugged.
Shaknahyi went to the storefront and tried the door. It rattled but wouldn't open. He took out
his needle gun and smashed a glass panel over the lock, then reached in and opened the
door. I followed him into the dark, musty storefront.
There was trash strewn everywhere, broken bottles and Styrofoam food containers,
shredded newspaper and bubblewrap packing material. A strong odor of pinescented
disinfectant hung in the still air. There was a single battered table against one wall, a light
fixture hang-ing from the ceiling, a stained porcelain sink in a back corner with one dripping
faucet. There was no other fur-niture. Evidently on Cheung had had some warning of the
police interest in his industry. We walked around the room, crunching glass and plastic
underfoot. There was nothing more we could do there.
"When you're a cop," said Shaknahyi, "you spend a lot of time being frustrated."
We went outside again. The men on the kitchen chairs were shouting at our informant; none
of them had any use for On Cheung, but their friend had broken some goddamn unwritten
code by talking to us. He'd have to suffer for it.
We left them going at it. I was disgusted by the whole thing, and glad I hadn't seen evidence
of what On Cheung had been up to. "What happens now?" I asked.
"To On Cheung? We file a report. Maybe he's moved to another part of the city, maybe he's
left the city alto-gether. Maybe someday somebody'11 catch him and cut his arms and legs
off. Then he can sit on a street corner and beg, see how he likes it."
A woman in a long black coat and gray kerchief crossed the street. She was carrying a
small baby wrapped in a red-and-white-checked keffiya. "Yaa Sidi?" she said to me.
Shaknahyi raised his eyebrows and walked away.
"Can I help you, O my sister?" I said. It was highly unusual for a woman to speak to a strange
man on the street. Of course, I was just a cop to her.
"The children tell me you are a kind man," she said. "The landlord demands more money
because now I have another child. He says—"
I sighed. "How much do you need?"
"Two hundred fifty kiam, yaa Sidi."
I gave her five hundred. I took it out of last night's profits from Chiri's. There was still plenty
left.
"What they say about you is true, O chosen one!" she said. There were tears slipping from
her eyes.
"You embarrass me," I said. "Give the landlord his rent, and buy food for yourself and your
children."
"May Allah increase your strength, yaa Sidi!"
"May He bless you, my sister."
She hurried back across the street and into her build-ing. "Makes you feel all warm inside,
don't it?" Shaknahyi said. I couldn't tell if he was mocking me.
"I'm glad I can help out a little," I said.
"The Robin Hood of the slums."
"There are worse things to be called."
"If Indihar could see this side of you, maybe she wouldn't hate your guts so much." I stared at
him, but he only laughed.
Back in the patrol car, the comp deck spoke up. "Badge number 374, respond immediately.
Escaped mur-derer Paul Jawarski has been positively identified in Meloul's on Nur ad-Din
Street. He is desperate, well armed, and he will shoot to kill. Other units are on their way."
"We'll take care of it," said Shaknahyi. The comp deck's crackle faded away.
"Meloul's is where we ate lunch that time, right?" I said.
Shaknahyi nodded. "We'll try to ease this bastard Jawarski out of there before he puts holes
in Meloul's couscous steamer."
"Holes?" I asked.
Shaknahyi turned and gave me a broad grin. "He likes old-fashioned pistols. He carries a
.45 automatic. Put a dimple in you big enough to throw a leg of lamb through."
"You heard of this Jawarski?"
Shaknahyi swung into Nur ad-Din Street. "We street cops have been seeing his picture for
weeks. Claims he's killed twenty-six men. He's the boss of the Flathead Gang. There's ten
thousand kiam on his head."
Evidently I was supposed to know what he was talk-ing about. "You don't seem too
concerned," I said.
Shaknahyi raised a hand. "I don't know whether the tip's genuine or just another pipe dream.
We get as many fake calls as good ones in this neighborhood."
We were the first to arrive at Meloul's. Shaknahyi opened his door and got out. I did the
same. "What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Just keep the citizens out of the way," he said. "In case there's some—"
There was a volley of shots from inside the restaurant.
Those projectile weapons make a respectable noise. They sure catch your attention when
they go off, not like the spitting and hissing of static and seizure guns. I dropped to the
sidewalk and tried to wrestle my static gun free of my pocket. There were more shots and I
heard glass shat-tering nearby. The windshield, I guessed.
Shaknahyi had fallen back alongside the building, out of the line of fire. He was drawing his
own weapon.
"Jirji," I called.
He waved to me to cut off the back of the restaurant. I got up and moved a few yards, and
then I heard Jawarski run out the front door. I turned and saw Shaknahyi chas-ing after him,
firing his needle gun down Nur ad-Din Street. Shaknahyi shot four times, and then Jawarski
turned. I was looking straight at them, and all I could think about was how big and black the
mouth of Jawarski's gun looked. It seemed like it was pointed straight at my heart. He fired a
few times and my blood froze until I realized I hadn't been hit.
Jawarski ran into a yard a few doors from Meloul's, and Shaknahyi went in after him. The
fugitive must have realized that he couldn't cut through to the next street, because he
doubled back toward Shaknahyi. I got there just as the two men stood facing each other,
shooting it out. Jawarski's gun emptied and he turned and ran to the back of a two-story
house.
We chased him through the yard. Shaknahyi ran up a flight of steps in the back, pushed
open a door, and went inside the house. I didn't want to, but I had to follow him. As soon as I
opened the back door, I saw Shaknahyi. He was leaning against a wall, shoving a fresh clip
into his needle gun. He didn't seem to be aware of the large, dark stain that was spreading
across his chest.
"Jirji, you're shot," I said, my mouth dry and my heart hammering.
"Yeah." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Come on."
He walked slowly through the house to the front door. He went outside and stopped a civilian
in a small electric car. "Too far to get the patrol car," he said to me, panting for breath. He
looked at the driver. "I'm shot," he said, getting into the car.
I got in beside him. "Take us to the hospital," I or-dered the mousy little man behind the
wheel.
Shaknahyi swore. "Forget that. Follow him." He pointed to Jawarski, who was crossing the
open space between the house he'd hidden in and the next.
Jawarski saw us and fired as he ran. The bullet went through the window of the car, but the
bald-headed driver kept on going. We could see Jawarski dodging from one house to
another. Between houses, he'd turn and take a few shots at us. Five more bullets spanged
into the car.
Finally Jawarski got to the last house on the block, and he ran up the porch. Shaknahyi
steadied his needle gun and fired. Jawarski staggered inside. "Come on," said Shaknahyi,
wheezing. "I think I got him." He opened the car door and fell to the pavement. I jumped out
and helped him to his feet. "Where are they?" he murmured.
I looked over my shoulder. A handful of uniformed cops were swarming up the stairs of
Jawarski's hiding place, and three more patrol cars were racing up the street. "They're right
here, Jirji," I said. His skin was start-ing to turn an awful gray color.
He leaned against the shot-up car and caught his breath. "Hurts like hell," he said quietly.
"Take it easy, Jirji. We'll get you to the hospital."
"Wasn't no accident, the call about On Cheung, then the tip on Jawarski."
"What you talking about?" I asked.
He was in a lot of pain, but he wouldn't get in the car. "The Phoenix File," he said. He looked
deeply into my eyes, as if he could burn this information directly into my brain. "Hajjar let it
slip about the Phoenix File. I been keeping notes ever since. They don't like it. Pay attention
to who gets my parts, Audran. But play dumb or they'll take your bones too."
"The hell is a Phoenix File, Jirji?" I was frantic with worry.
"Take this." He gave me the vinyl-covered notebook from his hip pocket. Then his eyes
closed and he slumped backward across the hood of the car. I looked at the driver. "Now
you want to take him to the hospital?"
The shrimpy bald-headed man stared at me. Then he looked at Jirji. "You think you can
keep that blood off my upholstery?" he asked.
I grabbed the little motherfucker by the front of his shirt and threw him out of his own car.
Then I gently eased Shaknahyi into the passenger seat and drove to the hospital as fast as
I've ever driven.
It didn't make any difference. I was too late.



         ne of Khayyam's rubaiyyat kept going through my mind. Something about regret:
Again, again, Repentance oft before I vowed—but was I sober when I swore? Again, again I
failed, for younger thoughts my frail Repentance into tatters tore.
"Chiri, please," I said, holding up my empty glass. The club was almost empty. It was late
and I was very tired. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, the same shrill, thumping
hispo music Kandy played every time she got up to dance. I was getting tired of hearing the
same songs over and over again.
"Why don't you go home?" Chiri asked me. "I can take care of the place by myself. What's
the matter, don't you trust me with the cash?"
I opened my eyes. She'd put a fresh vodka gimlet in front of me. I was in a bottomless
melancholy, the kind that doesn't get any help at all from liquor. You can drink all night and
you never get loaded. You end up with a bad stomach and a pounding headache, but the
relief you expect from your troubles never comes. " 'S all right," I said. "I got to stay. You go
ahead and close up, though. Nobody's come in for an hour at least."
"What you say, boss," said Chiri, giving me a worried look. I hadn't told her about
Shaknahyi. I hadn't told any-body about him.
"Chiri, you know somebody I can trust to do a little dirty work?"
She didn't look shocked. That was one of the reasons I liked her so much. "You can't find
somebody with your cop connections? You don't have enough thugs working for you at
Papa's?"
I shook my head. "Somebody who knows what he's doing, somebody I can count on to keep
a low profile."
Chiri grinned. "Somebody like what you used to be before your lucky number came up.
What about Morgan? He's dependable and he probably won't sell you out."
"I don't know," I said. Morgan was a big blond guy, an American from Federated New
England. He and I didn't travel in the same circles, but if Chiri recommended him, he was
probably all right.
"What you need done?" she asked.
I rubbed my cheek. Reflected in the back mirror, my red beard was beginning to show a lot
of gray. "I want him to track somebody down for me. Another American."
"See there? Morgan's a natural."
"Uh huh," I said sourly. "If they blow each other away, nobody'11 miss 'em. Can you get hold
of him to-night?"
She looked doubtful. "It's two o'clock in the morn-ing."
"Tell him there's a hundred kiam in it for him. Just for showing up and talking to me."
"He'll be here," said Chiri. She dug an address book out of her bag and grabbed the bar's
phone.
I gulped down half the vodka gimlet and stared at the front door. Now I was waiting for two
people.
"You want to pay us?" Chiri said some time later.
I'd been staring at the door, unaware that the music had been turned off and the five dancers
had gotten dressed. I shook my head to clear the fog out of it, but it didn't do much good.
"How'd we do tonight?" I asked.
"Same as always," said Chiri. "Lousy."
I split the receipts with her and began counting out the dancers' money. Chiri had a list of
how many drinks each girl had gotten from the customers. I figured out the commissions and
added them to the wages. "Nobody bet-ter come in late tomorrow," I said.
"Yeah, right," said Kandy, snatching up her money and hurrying for the door. Lily, Rani, and
Jamila were close behind her.
"You all right, Marid?" asked Yasmin.
I looked up at her, grateful for her concern. "I'm fine," I said. "Tell you all about it later."
"Want to go out for some breakfast?"
That would have been wonderful. I hadn't gone out with Yasmin in months. I realized that it
had been a very long time since I'd gone out with anybody. I had some-thing else to do
tonight, though. "Let me postpone that," I said. "Tomorrow, maybe."
"Sure, Marid," she said. She turned and went out.
"There is something wrong, huh?" said Chiri.
I just nodded and folded up the rest of the night's cash. No matter how fast I gave it away, it
just kept ac-cumulating.
"And you don't want to talk about it."
I shook my head. "Go on home, Chiri."
"Just gonna sit here in the dark by yourself?"
I made a shooing motion with my hand. Chiri shrugged and left me alone. I finished the
vodka gimlet, then went behind the bar and made myself another one. About twenty minutes
later, the blond American came into the club. He nodded to me and said something in
English.
I just shook my head. I opened my briefcase on the bar, took out an English-language
daddy, and chipped it in. There was just a moment while my mind worked to translate what
he'd said, and then the daddy kicked in and it was as if I'd always known how to speak
English. "Sorry to make you come out so late, Morgan," I said.
He ran a large hand through his long blond hair. "Hey, man, what's happenin'?"
"Want a drink?"
"You can draw me a beer if it's free."
"Help yourself," I said.
He leaned across the bar and held a clean glass under one of the taps. "Chiri said
something about a hundred kiam, man."
I took out my money. The size of the roll dismayed me. I was going to have to get to the bank
more often, or else I'd have to let Kmuzu play bodyguard full-time. I dealt out five twenty-kiam
bills and slid them down to-ward Morgan.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and scooped up the money. He looked down
at the bills, then back at me. "Now I can go, right?" he said.
"Sure," I said, "unless you want to hear how you can make a thousand more."
He adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles and grinned again. I didn't know if the glasses
were functional or just an affectation. If his eyes were bad, he could have had them
reconstructed cheaply enough. "This is a lot more interesting than what I was doin', anyway,"
he said.
"Fine. I just want you to find somebody." I told him all about Paul Jawarski.
When I mentioned the Flathead Gang, Morgan nod-ded. "He's the guy that killed the cop
today?" he asked.
"He got away."
"Well, hey, man, the law will bring him in sooner or later, you can bet on that."
I didn't let my expression change. "I don't want to hear about sooner or later, okay? I want to
know where he's at, and I want to ask him a couple of questions before the cops get to him.
He's holed up somewhere, probably been stung with a needle gun."
"You're payin' a thousand kiam just to put the finger on this guy?"
I squeezed the wedge of lime into my gimlet and drank some. "Uh huh."
"You don't want me to rough him up a little for you?"
"Just find him before Hajjar does."
"Aha," said Morgan, "I get you, man. After the lieu-tenant gets his hooks into him, Jawarski
won't be available to talk to nobody."
"Right. And we don't want that to happen."
"I guess we don't, man. How much you gonna pay me up front?"
"Five now, five later." I cut him another five hundred kiam. "I get results tomorrow, right?"
His big hand closed on the money and he gave me his predatory grin. "Go get some sleep,
man. I'll be wakin' you up with Jawarski's address and commcode."
I stood up. "Finish your beer and let's get out of here. This place is starting to break my
heart."
Morgan looked around at the dark bar. "Ain't the same without the girls and the mirror balls
goin', is it?" He gulped down the rest of his beer and set the glass gently on the bar.
I followed him toward the front door. "Find Jawar-ski," I said.
"You got it, man." He raised a hand and ambled away up the Street. I went back inside and
sat in my place. My night wasn't over yet.
I drank a couple more gimlets before Indihar showed up. I knew she was going to come. I'd
been waiting for her.
She'd thrown on a bulky blue coat and tied a maroon and gold scarf over her hair. Her face
was pale and drawn, her lips pressed tightly together. She came to where I was sitting and
looked down at me. Her eyes weren't red, though; she hadn't been crying. I couldn't imagine
In-dihar crying. "I want to talk to you," she said. Her voice was cold and calm.
"That's why I been sitting here," I said.
She turned away and stared at herself in the wall of mirrors behind the stage. "Sergeant
Catavina said you weren't in very good shape this morning. That true?" She looked at me
again. Her expression was perfectly empty.
"Is what true?" I said. "That I wasn't feeling well?
"That you were high or hung over today when you went out with my husband."
I sighed. "I showed up at the station house with a hangover. It wasn't crippling, though."
Her hands began clenching and unclenching. I could see her jaw muscles twitch. "You think it
might have slowed you down any?"
"No, Indihar," I said, "I don't think it affected me at all. You want to blame me for what
happened? Is that what this is about?"
Her head turned very slowly. She stared directly into my eyes. "Yes, I want to blame you. You
didn't back him up fast enough. You didn't cover him. If you'd been there for him, he wouldn't
be dead."
"You can't say that, Indihar." I had a sick, hollow feeling in my belly because I'd been thinking
the same thing all day. The guilt had been growing in me since I'd left Shaknahyi lying on a
cot at the hospital with a bloody sheet over his face.
"My husband would be alive and my children would still have a father. They don't now, you
know. I haven't told them yet. I don't know how to tell them. I don't know how to tell myself, if
you want to know the truth. Maybe tomorrow I'll realize that Jirji's dead. Then I'll have to find a
way to get through the day without him, through the week, through the rest of my life."
I felt a sudden nausea and closed my eyes. It was as if I weren't really there, as if I were just
dreaming this night-mare. When I opened my eyes, though, Indihar was still looking at me. It
had all happened, and she and I were going to have to play out this terrible scene. "I—"
"Don't tell me you're sorry, you son of a bitch," she said. Even then she didn't raise her voice.
"I don't want to hear anybody tell me he's sorry."
I just sat there and let her say whatever she needed to say. She couldn't accuse me of
anything that I hadn't al-ready confessed to in my own mind. Maybe if I hadn't gotten so drunk
last night, maybe if I hadn't taken all those sunnies this morning—
Finally she just stared at me, a look of despair on her face. She was condemning me with
her presence and her silence. She knew and I knew, and that was enough. Then she turned
and walked out of the club, her gait steady, her posture perfect.
I felt absolutely destroyed. I found the phone where Chiri'd left it and spoke my home
commcode into it. It rang three times and then Kmuzu answered. "You want to come get
me?" I said. I was slurring my words.
"Are you at Chiriga's?" he asked.
"Yeah. Come quick before I kill myself." I slapped the phone down on the bar and made
myself another drink while I waited.
When he arrived, I had a little present for him. "Hold out your hand," I said.
"What is it, yaa Sidi?"
I emptied my pillcase into his upturned palm, then clicked the pillcase closed and put it back
in my pocket. "Get rid of 'em," I said.
His expression didn't change as he closed his fist. "This is wise," he said.
"I'm way overdue." I got up from my stool and fol-lowed him back into the cool night air. I
locked the front door of Chiri's and then let Kmuzu drive me home.
I took a long shower and let the hot needle spray blast my skin until I felt myself begin to
relax. I dried off and went into my bedroom. Kmuzu had brought me a mug of strong hot
chocolate. I sipped it gratefully.
"Will you be needing anything else tonight, yaa Sidi?" he asked.
"Listen," I said, "I'm not going into the station house in the morning. Let me sleep, all right? I
don't want to be bothered. I don't want to answer any phone calls or deal with anybody's
problems."
"Unless the master of the house requires you," said Kmuzu.
I sighed. "That goes without saying. Otherwise—"
"I will see that you're not disturbed."
I didn't chip in the wake-up daddy before I went to bed, and I got a restless night's sleep.
Bad dreams woke me again and again until I fell into deep, exhausted sleep at dawn. It was
close to noon when I finally got out of bed. I dressed in my old jeans and work shirt, a
costume I didn't wear very often around Friedlander Bey's mansion.
"Would you like some breakfast, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.
"No, I'm taking a vacation from all that today."
He frowned. "There is a business matter for your attention later."
"Later," I agreed. I went to the desk where I'd thrown my briefcase the night before, and took
Wise Counselor from the rack of moddies. I thought my trou-bled mind could use some
instant therapy. I seated myself in a comfortable black leather chair and chipped the moddy
in.
Once upon a time in Mauretania there was or maybe there wasn 't a famous fool, trickster,
and rascal named Martd Audran. One day Audran was driving his cream-colored
Westphalian sedan on his way to take care of some important business, when another car
collided with his. The second car was old and broken down, and although the accident was
clearly the fault of the other driver, the man jumped out of the wrecked heap and began
scream-ing at Audran. "Look what you 've done to my magnificent vehicle!" shouted the
driver, who was Police Lieutenant Hajjar. Reda Abu Adil, Hassan the Shiite, and Pauljawar-
ski also got out of the car. All four threatened and abused Audran, although he protested that
he had done nothing wrong.
Jawarski kicked the creased fender of Hajjar's auto-mobile. "It's useless now," he said, "and
so the only fair thing is for you to give us your car."
Audran was outnumbered four to one and it was clear that they were not in a mood to be
reasonable, so he agreed.
"And will you not reward us for showing you the path of honor?" asked Hajjar.
"If we hadn 't insisted," said Hassan, "your actions would have put your soul in jeopardy with
Allah."
"Perhaps," said Audran. "What do you wish me to pay you for this service?"
Reda Abu Adil spread his hands as if it mattered little. "It is but a token, a symbol between
Muslim broth-ers, " he said. "You may give us each a hundred kiam." So Audran handed the
keys to his cream-colored Westphalian sedan to Lieutenant Hajjar, and paid each of the four
a hundred kiam.
All afternoon, Audran pushed Hajjar's wrecked car back to town in the hot sun. He parked it
in the middle of the souk and went to find his friend, Saied the Half-Hajj. "You must help me
get even with Hajjar, Abu Adil, Has-san, and Jawarski," he said, and Saied was agreeable.
Audran cut a hole in the floor of the derelict automobile, and Saied lay by the opening
covered with a blanket so that none could see him, with a small bag of gold coins. Then
Audran started the engine of the car and waited.
Not long after, the four villains happened by. They saw Audran sitting in the shade of the
ruined automobile and laughed. "It won't drive an inch!" mocked Jawarski. "What are you
warming the engine for?"
Audran glanced up. "I have my reasons, "he said, and he smiled as if he had a wonderful
secret.
"What reasons?" demanded Abu Adil. "Has the sum-mer sun at last broiled your brains?"
Audran stood and stretched. "I guess I can tell you," he said lightly. "After all, I owe my good
fortune to you."
"Good fortune?" asked Hajjar suspiciously.
"Come," said Audran. "Look." He led the four vil-
lains to the back of the car where the battery cap had been left open. "Piss in the battery,"
he said.
"You 've surely gone crazy," said Jawarski.
"Then I will do it myself," said Audran, and he did, relieving himself into the wreck's battery.
"Now we must wait a moment. There! Did you hear that?"
"I heard nothing," said Hassan.
"Listen," said Audran. And there came a gentle chink! chink! sound from beneath the car.
"Take a look," he commanded.
Reda Abu Adil got down on hands and knees, ignor-ing the dust and the indignity, and
peered under the car. "May his faith be cursed!" he cried. "Gold!" He stretched out on the
ground and reached under the car; when he straightened up again, he held a handful of gold
coins. He showed them to his companions in amazement.
"Listen, "said Audran. And they all heard the chink! chink! of more gold coins falling to the
ground.
"He pisses yellow into the car," murmured Hassan, "and yellow gold falls from it."
"May Allah let you prosper if you let me have my car back!" cried Lieutenant Hajjar.
"I'm afraid not," said Audran.
"Take your goddamn cream-colored Westphalian se-dan and we'll call it a fair trade," said
Jawarski.
"I'm afraid not," said Audran.
"We'll each give you a hundred kiam as well," said Abu Adil.
"I'm afraid not," said Audran.
They begged and begged, and Audran refused. Fi-nally they offered to give him back his
sedan plus five hundred kiam from each of them, and he accepted. "But come back in an
hour, "he said. "That's still my piss in the battery. "And they agreed. Then Audran and Saied
went off and divided their profit.
I yawned as I popped Wise Counselor out. I'd enjoyed the vision, except for seeing Hassan
the Shiite, who was dead and who could stay dead for all I cared. I thought about what the
little story might mean. It might mean that my unconscious mind was hard at work coming up
with clever ways to outsmart my enemies. I was glad to learn this. I already knew that I wasn't
going to get anywhere by force. I didn't have any. I felt subtly different after that session with
Wise Counselor: more determined, maybe, but also wonder-fully clear and free. I had a grim
set to my jaw now and the      | sense that no one at all could impose restrictions on me.        j I'd
been changed by Shaknahyi's death, kicked up to a          I higher energy level. I felt as if I were
living in pure oxy-   ! gen, bright and clean and dangerously explosive.
"Yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu softly.
"What is it?"
"The master of the house is ill today and wishes you to attend to a small business matter."
I yawned again. "Yeah, you right. What kind of busi-ness?"
"I do not know."
This liberated feeling let me forget about what Fried-lander Bey might think of my clothes.
That just wasn't important anymore. Papa had me under his thumb and maybe I couldn't do
anything about it, but I wasn't going to be passive any longer. I intended to let him know that;
but when I saw him, he looked so ill that I filed it away for later.
He lay propped up in bed with a small mountain of pillows around him and behind his back.
A tray table straddled his legs, and it was stacked high with file folders, reports, multicolored
memory plates, and a tiny microcomputer. He held a cup of hot aromatic tea in one hand
and one of Umm Saad's stuffed dates in the other. Umm Saad must have thought she could
bribe Papa with them, or that he would forget his last words to her. To be honest,
Friedlander Bey's problem with Umm Saad seemed almost trivial to me now, but I did not
mention her.
"I pray for your well-being," I said.
Papa raised his eyes toward me and grimaced. "It is nothing, my nephew. I feel dizzy and
sick to my stom-ach."
I leaned forward and kissed Papa's cheek, and he muttered something I could not hear
clearly.
I waited for him to explain the business matter he wanted me to take care of. "Youssef tells
me there is a large, angry woman in the waiting room downstairs," he said, a frown pulling
down his mouth. "Her name is Tema Akwete. She's trying to be patient because she's come
a long distance to beg a favor."
"What kind of favor?" I asked.
Papa shrugged. "She represents the new government of the Songhay Republic."
"Never heard of it."
"Last month the country was called the Glorified Segu Kingdom. Before that it was the
Magistracy of Tim-buktu, and before that Mali, and before that it was part of French West
Africa."
"And the Akwete woman is an emissary from the new regime?"
Friedlander Bey nodded. He started to say some-thing, but his eyes closed and his head fell
back against the pillows. He passed a hand across his forehead. "Forgive me, my nephew,"
he said, "I'm not feeling well."
"Then don't concern yourself about the woman. What is her problem?"
"Her problem is that the Segu king was very upset to find out he'd lost his job. Before he fled
the palace he sacked the royal treasury, of course—that goes without saying. His gang also
destroyed all the vital computer records in the capital. The Songhay Republic opened up
shop without the slightest idea of how many people they rule or even where the country's
boundaries are. There is no fair basis for taxation, no lists of government employees or
descriptions of their duties, and no accurate informa-tion concerning the armed forces.
Songhay faces immedi-ate catastrophe."
I understood. "So they sent someone here. They want you to restore order."
"Without tax revenue, the new government cannot pay its employees or continue normal
services. It's likely that Songhay will soon be paralyzed by general strikes. The army may
desert, and then the country will be at the mercy of neighboring nations, if they are any better
orga-nized."
"Why is the woman angry with you, then?"
Papa spread his hands. "Songhay's problems are not my concern," he said. "I explained to
you that Reda Abu Adil and I divided the Muslim world. This country is in his jurisdiction. I
have nothing to do with the Sub-Saharan states."
"Akwete should have gone to Abu Adil in the first place."
"Exactly. Youssef gave that message to her, but she screamed and struck the poor man.
She thinks we're try-ing to extort a higher payment from her and her govern-ment." Papa set
down his teacup and searched through the disordered piles of papers on his blankets,
selecting a thick envelope and passing it to me with a trembling hand. "This is the
background material and the contract she offered me. Tell her to take it to Abu Adil."
I took a deep breath and let it out. It didn't sound like dealing with Akwete was going to be
much fun. "I'll talk to her," I said.
Papa nodded absently. He'd disposed of one minor annoyance, and he was already turning
his attention to something else. After a while I murmured a few words and left the room. He
didn't even notice that I'd gone. Kmuzu was waiting for me in the corridor leading from
Papa's private apartment. I told him what Fried-lander Bey and I had talked about. "I'm
gonna see this woman," I said, "and then you and I are gonna take a ride out to Abu Adil's
house."
"Yes, yaa Sidi, but it may be best if I waited for you in the car. Reda Abu Adil no doubt thinks
me a traitor."
"Uh huh. Because you were hired as a bodyguard for his wife and now you look out for me?"
"Because he arranged for me to be a spy in the house of Friedlander Bey, and I no longer
consider myself to be in his employ."
I had known from the beginning that Kmuzu was a spy. I'd just thought he was Papa's spy,
not Abu Adil's. "You're not reporting everything back to him?"
"Back to whom, yaa Sidi?"
"Back to Abu Adil."
Kmuzu gave me a brief, earnest smile. "I assure you that I am not. I am, of course, reporting
to the master of the house."
"Well, that's all right, then." We'd gone downstairs, and I stopped outside one of the waiting
rooms. The two Stones That Speak stood on either side of the door. They glared
menacingly at Kmuzu. Kmuzu glared back. I ig-nored all of them and went inside. The black
woman jumped to her feet as soon as I'd set foot across the threshold. "I demand an
explanation!" she cried. "I warn you, as a lawful ambassador of the govern-ment of the
Songhay Republic—"
I shut her up with a sharp look. "Madame Akwete," I said, "the message you received earlier
was quite accu-rate. You've truly come to the wrong place. However, I can expedite this
matter for you. I'll convey the informa-tion and the contract in this envelope to Shaykh Reda
Abu Adil, who participated in establishing the Segu Kingdom. He'll be able to help you in the
same way."
"And what payment will you expect as a middle-man?" Akwete asked sourly.
"None whatsoever. It is a gesture of friendship from our house to a new Islamic republic."
"Our country is still young. We mistrust such friend-ship."
"That is your privilege," I said, shrugging. "No doubt the Segu king felt the same way." I
turned and left the waiting room.
Kmuzu and I walked briskly along the hall toward the great wooden front doors. I could hear
Akwete's shoes echoing behind us on the tiled floor. "Wait," she called. I thought I heard a
hint of apology in her voice.
I stopped and faced her. "Yes, madame?" I said.
"This shaykh . . . can he do as you say? Or is this some elaborate swindle?"
I gave her a cold smile. "I don't see that you or your country are in any position to doubt. Your
situation is hopeless now, and Abu Adil can't make it any worse. You have nothing to lose
and everything to gain."
"We are not rich," said Akwete. "Not after the way King Olujimi bled our people and
squandered our meager wealth. We have little gold—"
Kmuzu raised a hand. It was very unusual for him to interrupt. "Shaykh Reda is less
interested in your gold than in power," he said.
"Power?" asked Akwete. "What kind of power does he want?"
"He will study your situation," said Kmuzu, "and then he will reserve certain information for
himself."
I thought I saw the black woman falter. "I insist on going with you to see this man. It is my
right."
Kmuzu and I looked at each other. We both knew how naive she was to think she had any
rights at all in this situation. "All right," I said, "but you'll let me speak to Abu Adil first."
She looked suspicious. "Why is that?"
"Because I say so." I went outside with Kmuzu, where I waited in the warm sunlight while he
went for the car. Madame Akwete followed me a moment later. She looked furious, but she
said nothing more.
In the backseat of the sedan, I opened my briefcase and took Saied's tough-guy moddy
from the rack and chipped it in. It filled me with the confident illusion that nobody could get in
my way from now on, not Abu Adil, Hajjar, Kmuzu, or Friedlander Bey.
Akwete sat as far from me as she could, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her head
turned away from me. I wasn't concerned with her opinion of me. I looked at Shaknahyi's
brown vinyl-covered notebook again. On the first page he had written Phoenix File in large
letters. Beneath that there were several entries:
Ishaq Abdul-Hadi Bouhatta—Elwau Chami (Heart,
lungs)
Andreja Svobik—Fatima Hamdan (Stomach, bowel,
liver)
Abbas Karami—Nabil Abu Khalifeh (Kidneys, liver)
Blanca Mataro—
Shaknahyi had been sure that the four names on the left were somehow connected; but in
Hajjar's words, they were only "open files." Under the names, Shaknahyi had written three
Arabic letters: Alif, Lam, Mim, correspond-ing to the Roman letters A, L, M.
What could they mean? Were they an acronym? I could probably find a hundred
organizations whose ini-tials were A.L.M. The A and L might form the definite article, and
the M might be the first letter in a name: someone called al-Mansour or al-Maghrebi. Or
were the letters Shaknahyi's shorthand, an abbreviation referring to a German (almani) or a
diamond (almas) or something else? I wondered if I could ever discover what the three
letters meant, without Shaknahyi to explain his code.
I slipped an audio chip into the car's holosystem, then put the notebook and Tema Akwete's
envelope in the briefcase and locked it. While Umm Khalthoum, The Lady of the twentieth
century, sang her laments, I pre-tended she was mourning Jirji Shaknahyi, crying for Indihar
and their children. Akwete still stared out her win-dow, ignoring me. Meanwhile, Kmuzu
steered the car through the narrow, twisting streets of Hamidiyya, the slums that guarded the
approach to Reda Abu Adil's man-
sion.
After a ride of nearly half an hour, we turned into the estate. Kmuzu remained in the car,
pretending to doze. Akwete and I got out and went up the ceramic-tiled path to the house.
When Shaknahyi and I had been here be-fore, I'd been impressed by the luxurious gardens
and the beautiful house. I noticed none of that today. I rapped on the carved wooden door
and a servant answered my sum-mons immediately, giving me an insolent look but saying
nothing.
"We have business with Shaykh Reda," I said, pushing by him. "I come from Friedlander
Bey."
Thanks to Saied's moddy, my manner was rude and brusque, but the servant didn't seem to
be upset. He shut the door after Tema Akwete and hurried ahead of me, going down a
high-ceilinged corridor, expecting us to fol-low. We followed. He stopped before a closed
door at the end of a long, cool passage. The fragrance of roses was in the air, the smell I'd
come to identify with Abu Adil's mansion. The servant hadn't said another word. He paused
to give me another insolent look, then walked away.
"You wait here," I said, turning to Akwete.
She started to argue, then thought better of it. "I don't like this at all," she said.
"Too bad." I didn't know what was on the other side of the door, but I wasn't going to get
anywhere standing in the hallway with her, so I grabbed the doorknob and went through.
Neither Reda Abu Adil nor his secretary, Umar Abdul-Qawy, heard me come into the office.
Abu Adil was in his hospital bed, as he was the previous time I'd seen him. Umar was
leaning over him. I couldn't tell what he was doing.
"Allah grant you health," I said gruffly.
Umar jerked upright and faced me. "How did you get in here?" he demanded.
"Your servant brought me to the door."
Umar nodded. "Kamal. I will have to speak to him." He looked at me more closely. "I'm
sorry," he said, "I don't recall your name."
"Marid Audran. I work for Friedlander Bey."
"Ah yes," said Umar. His expression softened just a little. "The last time, you came as a
policeman."
"I'm not actually a cop. I look after Friedlander Bey's interests with the police."
A little smile curled Umar's lips. "As you wish. Are you looking after them today?"
"His interests and yours also."
Abu Adil raised a feeble hand and touched Umar's sleeve. Umar bent to hear the old man's
whispered words, then straightened up again. "Shaykh Reda invites you to make yourself
comfortable," said Umar. "We would have prepared suitable refreshments if you'd let us
know you were coming."
I looked around for a chair and seated myself. "A very upset woman came to Friedlander
Bey's house today," I said. "She represents a revolutionary government that's just socialized
the Glorified Segu Kingdom." I opened my briefcase, took out the envelope from the
Songhay Repub-lic, and tossed it to Umar.
Umar looked amused. "Already? I really thought Olujimi would last longer. I suppose once
you've trans-ferred all the wealth there is in a country to a foreign bank, there's really no point
in being king anymore."
"I didn't come here to talk about that." The Half-Hay's moddy was making it difficult for me to
be civil to Umar. "By the terms of your agreement with Friedlander Bey, this country is under
your authority. You'll find all the relevant information in that packet. I left the woman fum-ing
outside in the hallway. She seems like a cutthroat bitch. I'm glad you have to deal with her,
and not me."
Urnar shook his head. "They always try to order and reorganize our lives for us. They forget
how much we can do for their cause if we're in the right mood."
I watched him play with the envelope, turning it around and around on the desk. A weak,
drawn-out groan came from Abu Adil, but I'd seen too much real pain in the world to pity the
suffering of a Proxy Hell maggot. I looked back at Umar. "If you can do something to make
your master more alert," I said, "Madame Akwete needs to speak with him. She seems to
think the fate of the Islamic world rests on her shoulders alone."
Umar gave me an ironic smile. "The Songhay Repub-lic," he said, shaking his head in
disbelief. "Tomorrow it will be a kingdom again or a conquered province or a fascist
dictatorship. And no one will care."
"Madame Akwete will care."
That amused him even more. "Madame Akwete will be one of the first to go in the new wave
of purges. But we've talked enough about her. Now we must discuss the matter of your
compensation."
I looked at him closely. "I didn't have any thought of payment," I said.
"Of course not. You were fulfilling the agreement, the compact between your employer and
mine. Nevertheless, it's always wise to express gratitude to our friends. After all, someone
who has helped you in the past is more likely to help you again. Perhaps there is some small
service I may do for you in return."
This was the whole purpose behind my little jaunt into Abu Adil's part of town. I spread my
hands and tried to look casual. "No, I can't think of anything," I said. "Un-less ..."
"Unless what, my friend?"
I pretended to examine my boot's rundown heel. "Unless you're willing to tell me why you've
installed Umm Saad in our household."
Umar pretended to be just as casual. "You must know by now that Umm Saad is a very
intelligent woman, but she is by no means as clever as she believes. We wished her only to
keep us apprised of Friedlander Bey's plans. We said nothing to her about confronting him
directly or abusing his hospitality. She's antagonized your master, and that has made her
worthless to us. You may dispose of her as you wish."
"It's only as I suspected," I said. "Friedlander Bey doesn't hold you or Shaykh Reda
responsible for her ac-tions."
Umar raised one hand in a rueful gesture. "Allah
gives us tools to use as best we can," he said. "Sometimes a tool breaks and we must
discard it."
"Allah be praised," I murmured.        ,
"Praise Allah," said Umar. We seemed to be getting < along just fine now.
"One other thing," I said. "The policeman who was $
with me the last time, Officer Shaknahyi, was shot and i
killed yesterday."     I
Umar didn't stop smiling, but his brow furrowed. "We       I heard the news. Our hearts go out
to his widow and chil-dren. May Allah grant them peace."
"Yeah. In any event, I greatly desire to have the man who killed him. His name is Paul
Jawarski."
I looked at Abu Adil, who writhed restlessly on his hospital bed. The plump old man made a
few low, unintel-ligible sounds, but Umar wasn't paying any attention to him. "Certainly," he
said. "We'll be glad to put our re-sources at your disposal. If any of our associates know
anything about this Jawarski, you'll be informed immedi-ately."
I didn't like the way Umar said that. It was too glib, and he looked too unhappy. I just thanked
him and stood up to go.
"A moment, Shaykh Marid," he said in a quiet voice. He stood up and took my arm, guiding
me to another exit. "I'd like to have a private word with you. Would you mind stepping into the
library?"
I felt a peculiar chill. I knew this invitation was com-ing from Umar Abdul-Qawy, acting
independently, not Umar Abdul-Qawy, the secretary of Shaykh Reda Abu Adil. "Fine," I.
said.
He reached up and popped the moddy he was wear-ing. He hadn't spared so much as a
glance at Abu Adil.
Umar held the door for me, and I went through into the library. I seated myself at a large
oblong table of glossy dark wood. Umar didn't sit, however. He paced in front of a high wall
lined with bookshelves, idly tossing the moddy in one hand. "I think I understand your
position," he said at last.
"Which position is that?"
He waved irritably. "You know what I mean. How much longer will you be content to be
Friedlander Bey's
trained dog, running and fetching for a madman who doesn't have the wit to realize he's
already dead?" "You mean Papa, or Shaykh Reda?" I asked. Umar stopped pacing and
frowned at me. "I'm speak-ing of both of them, and I'm sure you goddamn well know it."
I watched Umar for a moment, listening to the trilling of some of the songbirds that were
caged all through Abu Adil's house and grounds. It gave the afternoon a false sense of
peace and hopefulness. The air in the library was musty and stale. I began to feel caged
myself. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here today. "What are you suggesting, Umar?"
I asked.
"I'm suggesting that we begin thinking of the future. Someday, not long from now, the old
men's empires will be in our hands. Hell, I run Shaykh Reda's business for him right now. He
spends the whole day chipped in to ... to—"
"I know what he's got chipped in," I said. Umar nodded. "All right, then. This moddy that I use
is a recent recording of his mind., He gave it to me because his only sexual kick is jamming
himself, or an accurate facsimile of himself. Does that disgust you?"
"You're kidding." I'd heard much worse in my time. "Forget that, then. He doesn't realize that
with his moddy, I'm his equal as far as tending to business is con-cerned. I am Abu Adil, but I
have the added advantage of my own native skills. He is Shaykh Reda, a great man; but
with this moddy, I am Shaykh Reda and Umar Abdul-Qawy together. Why do I need him?"
I found this all terrifically amusing. "Are you propos-ing the elimination of Abu Adil and
Friedlander Bey?" Umar looked around himself nervously. "I propose no such thing," he said
in a quiet voice. "There are too many other people depending on their judgment and vision.
Yet there may come a day when the old men themselves are a hindrance to their own
enterprises."
"When the time comes to push them aside," I said, "the right people will know it. And
Friedlander Bey, at least, will not begrudge them."
"What if the time is now?" Umar asked hoarsely. "You may be ready, but I'm not prepared to
take over Papa's affairs."
"Even that problem could be solved," insisted Umar. "Possibly," I said. I didn't let any
expression cross my face. I had no idea if we were being watched and re-corded, and yet I
didn't want to antagonize Umar. I knew now that he was a very dangerous man.
"You will learn that I am right," he said. He tossed the moddy in his hand some more, his
brow furrowed again in thought. "Go back to Friedlander Bey now and think about what I've
said. We'll talk again soon. If you do not share my enthusiasm, I may need to push you aside
along with both our masters." I started to rise from my chair. He raised a hand to stop me.
"That is not a threat, my friend," he said calmly. "It is only how I see the future." "Allah alone
sees the future." He laughed cynically. "If you think that pious talk has any real meaning, I
may end up with more power than Shaykh Reda ever dreamed of." He indicated another
door on the south side of the library. "You may go out that way. Follow the corridor to the left,
and it will lead you to the front entrance. I must go back and discuss this Songhay Republic
business with the woman. You needn't worry about her. I'll send her back to her hotel with my
driver."
"Thank you for your kindness," I said. "May you go in peace and safety," he said. I left the
library and followed Umar's directions. Kamal, the servant, met me along the way and
showed me out. Again he kept silent as we walked. I went down the steps toward the car,
and then I turned to look back. Kamal stood in the doorway, staring after me as if I might be
concealing stolen silverware in my clothing.
I got into the sedan. Kmuzu started the engine and swung the car around and out through the
main gate. I thought about what Umar had said, what he'd offered me. Abu Adil had
exercised his power for almost two centu-ries. Surely in all that time there had been many
young men who'd filled the position Umar now held. Surely some of them had had the same
ambitious ideas. Abu Adil still remained, but what had happened to those young men?
Maybe Umar had never considered that question. Maybe Umar was nowhere near as smart
as he thought he was.
Shaknahyi had been killed on Tuesday, and it wasn't until Friday that I was able to go into
the station house again. It was, of course, the Sabbath, and I toyed with the idea of passing
by a mosque on the way, but I felt hypocritical about that. I figured I was such a crummy
person that no amount of worshiping could make me acceptable to Allah. I know that's all
hollow rationalization—it's the sinners, after all, who need the benefits of prayer most, and
not the saints—but I just felt too soiled and guilty to enter the House of God. Besides,
Shaknahyi had set an example of true faith, and I'd failed him. I had to redeem myself in my
own eyes first, before I could expect to do the same in the eyes of Allah.
My life has been like a rolling ocean, with waves of comfort and ease followed by waves of
adversity. No mat-ter how peaceful things get, I know more trouble will soon sweep over me.
I've always told everyone how much I preferred being on my own, a solitary agent
answerable only to myself. I wished I meant it half as much as I pretended.
I needed every bit of the inner strength and confi-dence I'd achieved to deal with the
obstinate forces around me. I was getting no help at all from Lieutenant Hajjar, Friedlander
Bey, or anyone else. No one at the station house seemed particularly interested in talking
with me on Friday morning. There were a lot of part-time office workers there, Christians
who filled in for the reli-gious Muslims on the Sabbath. Lieutenant Hajjar was there, of
course, because on his list of favorite pastimes, religion finished down somewhere between
oral surgery and paying taxes. I went immediately to his square, glass-walled office.
Eventually he looked up to see who was looming be-side his desk. "What now, Audran?" he
snapped. He hadn't seen me in three days, but he made it sound as if I'd been badgering
him non-stop all that time.
"Just wanted to know what your plans for me were."
Hajjar looked up from his data deck. He stared at me for a long moment, his m6uth twisted
as if he'd just chewed a rotten date. "You're flattering' yourself," he said in a quiet voice. "You
don't enter into my plans at all."
"I was just volunteering to help in the investigation of Jirji Shaknahyi's death."
Hajjar raised his eyebrows. He leaned back in his chair. "What investigation?" he asked
incredulously. "He was shot by Paul Jawarski. That's all we need to know."
I waited until I could speak without shouting at him. "We have Jawarski in custody?"
"Whe!" demanded Hajjar. "Who's we? You mean, does the police department have
Jawarski? Not yet. But don't worry, Audran, he won't slip away. We're closin' in on him."
"How do you expect to find him? This is a big city. You think he's just sitting in a room
somewhere, waiting for you to show up with a warrant? He's probably back in America by
now."
"Good police work's how we'll find him, Audran. You never have much faith in good police
work. I know he ain't left town. He's here somewhere, and we're tight-enin' the net around
him. Just a matter of time."
I didn't like the sound of that. "Tell that to his widow," I said. "She'll be heartened by your
confidence."
Hajjar stood up. I'd made him angry. "You accusin' me of somethin', Audran?" he asked,
jabbing a stiff forefin-ger into my chest. "You hintin" that maybe I'm not pushin' this
investigation hard enough?"
"I never said nothing, Hajjar. I just wanted to find out what your plans are."
He gave me an evil grin. "What, you think I got nothin' better to do than sit around and worry
about how to utilize your special talents? Hell, Audran, we were get-tin' along fine without you
the last few days. But I suppose now you're here, there must be somethin' for you to do." He
sat down again at his desk and riffled through a stack of papers. "Uh yeah, here we go. I
want you to go on with that investigation you and Shaknahyi started." I wasn't happy about
that. I wanted to be directly involved in tracking down Jawarski. "I thought you said we were
supposed to lay off Abu Adil."
Hajjar's eyes narrowed. "I didn't say anything about Abu Adil, did I? You'd better lay off him.
I'm talkin' about this dink, On Cheung. The baby seller. Can't afford to let his trail get cold."
I felt a cold chill pass through me. "Anybody can follow up on On Cheung," I said. "I got a
special interest in finding Paul Jawarski."
"Martd Audran, Man on a Mission, huh? Well, forget it. We don't need you roarin' around the
city workin' off your grudge. Anyway, you ain't shown me yet that you know what you're doin'.
So I'm assignin' you a new part-ner, somebody with a lot of experience. This ain't some
ladies' volunteer club, Audran. You do what I tell you. Or don't you think puttin' On Cheung out
of commission is worth your time?"
I gritted my teeth. I didn't like the assignment, but Hajjar was right about it being just as
important as collar-ing Jawarski. "Whatever you say, Lieutenant."
He gave me that same grin. I wanted to whack it off his face. "You'll be ridin' around with
Sergeant Catavina from now pn. He ought to teach you plenty."
My heart sank. Of all the cops in that station house, Catavina was the man I least wanted to
spend time with. He was a bully and a lazy son of a bitch. I knew that if we ever did catch up
to On Cheung, it wouldn't be because of Catavina's contributions.
The lieutenant must have read my reaction from my expression. "Any problem with that,
Audran?" he asked.
"If I had a problem, is there any chance it would change your mind?"
"None whatsoever," said Hajjar.
"Didn't think so."
Hajjar looked back at the screen of his data deck. "Report to Catavina. I want to hear some
good news real soon. You cut the legs out from under this dink, there may be
commendations for the two of you."
"I'll get right on it, Lieutenant," I said. I was im-pressed with Hajjar's cleverness. He'd skillfully
maneuvered me away from both Abu Adil and Jawarski by throwing me into a
time-consuming but perfectly valid investigation. I was going to have to find a way to
accom-plish both my official assignment and my own personal goals.
Hajjar paid no further attention to me, so I left his office. I went to find Sergeant Catavina, I'd
rather proceed without him, but that wasn't going to be possible.
Catavina wasn't that excited about being paired with me, either. "I already got the word from
Hajjar," he told me. We were walking down to the garage, to pick up Catavina's patrol car.
Catavina was trying to give me the benefit of all his years' experience in one disjointed
lec-ture. "You ain't a good cop, Audran," he said in a grim voice. "You may never be a good
cop. I don't want you fucking up with me like you fucked up Shaknahyi."
"What's that mean, Catavina?" I asked.
He turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. "Figure it out. If you'd known what you was
doing, Shaknahyi'd still be alive and I wouldn't have to be holding your hand. Just stay out of
my way and do what I tell you."
I was mad as hell, but I didn't say anything. I planned to stay out of his way, all right. I figured
I'd have to lose Catavina if I wanted to make any progress.
We got into the patrol car, and he had nothing more to say to me for a long while. That was
okay with me. I thought he might drive back to the neighborhood where On Cheung was last
known to have operated. Maybe we could learn something useful by interviewing those
peo-ple again, even though they'd been so uncooperative be-fore.
That wasn't his plan, however. He headed west, in the opposite direction. We drove about a
mile and half through an area of narrow, twisting streets and alleys. At last, Catavina pulled
up in front of a crumbling apartment building, the tallest building on the block. The windows
on the ground floor had been covered over with plywood, and the front door into the foyer
had been taken off" its hinges. The walls inside and out were covered with spray-painted
names and slogans. The lobby reeked; it had been used as a toilet for a long time. As we
crossed to the elevator, we crunched broken glass beneath our boots. There was a thick
layer of dust and grit over everything.
"What are we doing here?" I asked.
"You'll see," said Catavina. He punched the button for the elevator. When it arrived, I was
hesitant about getting in. The condition of the building didn't give me any confidence that the
cables would hold our weight. When the elevator asked what floor we wanted, Catavina
muttered "Eight." We looked away from each other as the door slid closed. We rode in
silence, the only noise coming from the elevator as it creaked its way upward.
We got out on the eighth floor, and Catavina led the way down the dark hallway to room 814.
He took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the front door.
"What's this?" I asked, following him into the seedy apartment.
"Police officers' lounge," said Catavina.
There was a large living room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom. There wasn't much
furniture—a cheap card table and six chairs in the living room, along with a torn black vinyl
couch, a small holoset, and four folding cots. There were uniformed cops asleep on two of
the cots. I recognized them but didn't know their names. Catavina dropped heavily onto the
couch and stared at me across the bare floor. "Want a drink?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Bring me some whiskey then. There's ice in the kitchen."
I went into the kitchen and found a good collection of liquor bottles. I tossed a few ice cubes
into a glass and poured in three fingers of raw Japanese liquor. "So what are we doing
here," I called, thinking of the department's motto, "protecting or serving?" I carried the drink
back into the living room and handed it to Catavina.
"You're serving," he said, grunting. "I'm protecting."
I sat down in one of the folding chairs and stared at him, watching him down half the
Japanese whiskey in one long gulp. "Protecting what?" I asked.
Catavina smiled contemptuously. "Protecting my ass, that's what. It ain't gonna get shot up
while I'm here, that's for damn sure."
I glanced at the two sleeping cops. "Gonna stay here long?"
"Till the shift's over," he said.
"Mind if I take the car and get some work done in the meantime?"
The sergeant looked at me over the rim of his whis-key glass. "Why the hell you want to do
that?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Shaknahyi never let me drive."
Catavina looked at me like I was crazy. "Sure, just don't smash it up." He dug in his pocket
and fished out the car keys, then tossed them to me. "You better come back and pick me up
by five o'clock."
"Right, Sergeant," I said. I left him staring at the holoset, which wasn't even turned on. I rode
the elevator back down to the filthy lobby, wondering what I was go-ing to do next. I felt an
obligation to find something that might lead me to On Cheung, but instead it was Jirji
Shaknahyi who occupied my mind.
His funeral had been the day before, and for a while I thought I'd just stay home. For one
thing, I didn't know if I was emotionally settled enough to handle it; for another, I still felt partly
responsible for his death, and it didn't seem right for me to attend. I didn't want to face
Indihar and the children under those circumstances. Nevertheless, on Thursday morning I
went to the small mosque near the station house where the memorial was being held.
Only men were permitted to participate in the wor-ship service. I removed my shoes and
performed the rit-ual ablutions, then entered the mosque and took a place near the back. A
lot of the other cops in the congregation seemed to be looking at me with vengeful
expressions. I was still an outsider to them, and in their eyes I might as well have pulled the
trigger that killed Shaknahyi.
We prayed, and then an elderly, gray-bearded imam delivered a sermon and a eulogy,
going through some weary truisms" about duty and service and bravery. None of it made me
feel any better. I was truly sorry that I'd talked myself into attending the service.
Then we all got up and filed out of the mosque. Ex-cept for some birds singing and a dog
barking, it was almost supernaturally quiet. The sun burned down from a high, cloudless sky.
A faint, tremulous breeze rippled the dusty leaves in the trees, but the air was almost too hot
to breathe. The odor of spoiled milk hung like a sour mist over the cobblestone alleys. The
day was just too oppres-sive to draw the business, out much longer. I'm sure Shaknahyi'd
had many friends, but right now they all just wanted to get to the graveyard and get him
planted.
Indihar led the procession from the mosque to the cemetery. She was dressed in a black
dress with her face veiled and her hair covered with a black kerchief. She must have been
stifling. Her three children walked beside her, their expressions bewildered and frightened.
Chiri had told me that Indihar hadn't had enough money to pay for a tomb in the cemetery in
Haffe al-Khala where Shaknahyi's parents were buried, and she wouldn't accept a loan from
us. Instead, Shaknahyi was laid to rest in what amounted to a pauper's grave in the
cemetery on the western edge of the Budayeen. I followed far behind her as Indihar crossed
the Boulevard il-Jameel and passed through the eastern gate. People who lived in the
quarter as well as foreign tourists came out and stood on the side-walks as the funeral party
made its way up the Street. I could see many people weeping and murmuring prayers.
There was no way to tell if those people even knew who the deceased was. It probably didn't
make any difference to them.
All of Shaknahyi's former comrades wanted to help carry the particleboard coffin through the
streets, so in-stead of six pallbearers there was a pushing, shoving mob of uniformed men
all straining to reach the flimsy box. The ones who couldn't get near enough to touch it
marched alongside and in a long parade to the rear, beat-ing their chests with their fists and
shouting testaments of their faith. There was a lot of chanting and fingering of Muslim
rosaries. I found myself moving my lips along with the others, reciting ancient prayers that
had been in-scribed in my memory as a young child. After a while, I too was caught up in the
odd mixture of despair and cele-bration. I found myself praising Allah for visiting so much
injustice and horror on our helpless souls.
In the cemetery, I kept my distance again as the unadorned coffin was lowered into the
ground. Several of Shaknahyi's closest friends on the police force took turns shoveling in
dirt. The mourners offered more prayers in unison, although the imam had declined to
accompany the funeral to its conclusion. Indihar stood bravely by, clutching the hands of
Hakim and Zahra, and eight-year-old Little Jirji held tightly to Hakim's other hand. Some
representative of the city went up to Indihar and mur-mured something, and she nodded
gravely. Then all of the uniformed police officers filed past and offered her their individual
condolences. That's when I saw Indihar's shoulders begin to slump; I could tell that she had
begun to weep. Meanwhile, Little Jirji looked out over the crum-bling tombs and overgrown
grave markers, his expression perfectly blank.
When the funeral was over, everyone left but me. The police department had provided a
small spread of food at the station house, because Indihar didn't have the money for that,
either. I saw how humiliating the whole situation was for her. Besides grieving for her
husband, Indihar also suffered the pain of having her poverty re-vealed to all her friends and
acquaintances. To many Mus-lims, an unworthy funeral is as much a calamity for the
survivors as the death of the loved one itself.
I chose not to attend the reception at the station house. I stayed behind, staring down at
Jirji's unmarked grave, my mind confused and troubled. I said a few prayers alone and
recited some passages from the Qur'an. "I promise you, Jirji," I murmured, "Jawarski won't
get away with this." I didn't have any illusions that making Jawarski pay would let Shaknahyi
rest any easier, or make Indihar's grief any less, or ease the hardships for Little Jirji, Hakim,
and Zahra. I just didn't know what else to say. Finally I turned away from the grave. I blamed
myself for my hesitancy, and prayed that it wouldn't lead to anyone else getting hurt ever
again.
The funeral was on my mind as I drove from Catavina's secret coop back to the station
house. I heard the rolling rumble of thunder, and it surprised me because we don't get many
thunderstorms in the city. I glanced through the windshield up at the sky, but there were no
clouds at all in sight. I felt an odd chill, thinking that maybe the thunder had been a humbling
sign from God, underscoring my memories of Shaknahyi's burial. For the first time since his
death, I felt a deep emotional loss.
I also began to think that my idea of vengeance would not be adequate. Finding Paul
Jawarski and bringing him to justice would neither restore Shaknahyi nor free me from the
intrigue in which Jawarski, Reda Abu Adil, Friedlander Bey, and Lieutenant Hajjar were
somehow involved. In a sudden realization, I knew that it was time to stop thinking of the
puzzle as one large problem with one simple solution. None of the individual players knew
the entire story, I was certain of that. I'd have to pursue them separately and assemble what
clues I could find, hoping that in the end it would all add up to something indictable. If
Shaknahyi's hunches were wrong and I was heading off on a fool's errand, I would end up
worse than disgraced. I would surely end up dead.
I parked the copcar in the garage and went up to my cubicle on the third floor of the station
house. Hajjar rarely left his glass booth, so I didn't think there'd be much chance that he'd
catch me. Catch me! Hell, all I was doing was getting some work done.
It had been a couple of weeks since I'd done any serious work at my data deck. I sat down
at my desk and put a new cobalt-alloy cell-memory plate in one of the computer's adit ports.
"Create file," I said.
"File name," prompted the data deck's indifferent voice.
"Phoenix File," I said. I didn't have a lot of actual information to enter. First I read in the
names from Shaknahyi's notebook. Then I stared at the monitor screen. Maybe it was time
to follow up on Shaknahyi's research.
All of the satellite decks in the station house were connected to the central police database.
The problem was that Lieutenant Hajjar had never entirely trusted me, and so I'd been given
only the lowest security clearance. With my password, I could only obtain information that
was also available to any civilian who came in the front door of the station house and
inquired at the information desk. However, in the months I'd worked at the copshop, I'd
casually nosed out all the codes from other paper-pushers with higher ratings. There was a
great and active underground involved with circulating classified informa-tion among the
nonuniformed staff. This was technically highly illegal, of course, but in actual fact it was the
only way any of us could get our jobs done. "Search," I said.
"Enter string to be searched," muttered the Annam-ese deck in its peculiar American
accent.
"Bouhatta." Ishaq Abdul-Hadi Bouhatta was the first entry in Shaknahyi's notebook, a
murder victim whose killer had not yet been caught.
"Enter password," said the computer. I had the list of security codes scribbled on a torn
sheet of paper that I'd hidden in a tech manual. I'd memo-rized the top-level password long
ago, however. It was a twenty-four-character mix of alphanumerics and Arabic Standard
Code for Information Interchange symbols. I had to key those in manually.
"Accepted," said the data deck. "Searching." In about thirty seconds, Bouhatta's complete
file ap-peared on my monitor. I skipped through the personal biography and the details of
his death—except to note that he'd been killed at close range by a charge from a static
pistol, the same as Blanca. What I wanted to know was where his body had been taken. I
found that informa-tion in the medical examiner's report, which formed the last page of the
file. There'd been no autopsy; instead, Bouhatta's corpse had been delivered to Abu Emir
Hospi-tal in Al-Islam Square.
"Search again?" asked the deck. "No," I said. "Import data." "Database?"
"Abu Emir Hospital," I said.
The computer thought about that for a moment. "Current security code is sufficient," it
decided. There was a long pause while it accessed the computer records of the hospital.
When I saw the hospital's main menu on my screen, I ordered a search of Bouhatta's
records. It didn't take long, and I found what I needed. Just as Shaknahyi's notes sug-gested,
Bouhatta's heart and lungs had been removed almost immediately after his death and
transplanted into the body of Elwau Chami. I supposed then that Shaknahyi's other
information was correct, concerning the victims of the other unsolved murders.
Now I wanted to take his research one important step further. "Search again?" the hospital's
database inquired. "Yes," I said.
"Enter string to be searched." "Chami." A few seconds later, I saw a list of five names, from
Chami, AH Masoud to Chami, Zayd. "Select entry," said the deck.
"Chami, Elwau." When the file came up on the screen, I read through it carefully. Chami was
a faceless man, not as poor as some, not as rich as others. He was married and had seven
children, five sons and two daugh-ters. He lived in a middle-class neighborhood northeast of
the Budayeen. The medical records said nothing about any run-ins with the law, of course,
but there was one important fact buried in the redundant forms and reports: Elwau Chami
operated a small shop in the Budayeen, on Eleventh Street north of the Street. It was a shop
I knew well enough. Chami sold cheap Oriental rugs in the front, and he leased the rear of
the establishment to an old Pakistani married couple who sold brass ornaments to tourists.
The interesting fact was that I knew Friedlander Bey owned the building; Chami probably
also worked as gatekeeper for the high-stakes gambling parlor upstairs.
Next I researched Blanca Mataro, the sexchange whose corpse I'd discovered with Jirji
Shaknahyi. Her body had been taken to another hospital, and it had pro-vided urgently
needed kidneys and liver to a seriously ill young woman she'd never met. This in itself wasn't
un-usual; many people signed up to donate organs in case of sudden or accidental death. I
just found it rather coinci-dental that the recipient happened to be the niece of Umar
Abdul-Qawy.
I spent an hour and a half tracking down files on all the other names in Shaknahyi's
notebook. Besides Chami, two of the murder victims—Blanca and Andreja Svobik— had
ties to Papa. I was able to prove to my satisfaction that of the other four names, two had
rather obvious connec-tions to Reda Abu Adil. I was willing to bet a large sum of money that
the rest did too, but I didn't need to pursue the matter any further. None of this was ever
going to have to stand up in court. Neither Abu Adil nor Fried-lander Bey would ever be
dragged in front of a judge.
So what had I learned, after all? One: There had been at least four unsolved murders in the
city in the last sev-eral weeks. Two: All four victims had been killed in the same way, with a
shot at close range from a static pistol. Three: Healthy organs were taken from all four
victims after death, because all four were listed in the city's char-ity file of voluntary donors.
Four: All four victims and all four recipients had direct ties to either Abu Adil or Papa.
I had proved Shaknahyi's suspicion beyond the possi-bility of coincidence, but I knew that
Hajjar would still deny that the murders were related. I could point out that the killers had
used a static pistol so that none of the internal organs would be damaged, but Hajjar'd shrug
that off too. I was pretty damn certain that Hajjar knew about all this already, which was why
I'd been put to pasture investigating On Cheung, instead of looking into Shaknahyi's death.
There were a lot of powerful men al-lied against me. It was a good thing I had God on my
side. "Search again?" asked my data deck. I hesitated. I did have one more name to check,
but I really didn't want to know the details. After he'd been shot, Shaknahyi had told me to
find out where his parts went. I thought I already knew, although I didn't have an exact name. I
was sure that some of Jirji Shaknahyi still lived on in the body of some low-level employee of
Abu Adil or Friedlander Bey, or one of their friends or rela-tives. I was completely disgusted,
so I just said "Quit." I looked at the monitor's dark screen and thought about what I needed to
do next.
I was just fighting down the urge to find somebody in the station house who might sell me a
few sunnies when the phone on my belt rang. I undipped it and leaned back in my padded
chair. "Hello," I said.
"Marhaba," said Morgan's gruff voice. That was about all the Arabic that he knew. I leaned
over and grabbed my English-language daddy from the rack, then reached up and chipped
it in. "Where y'at, man?" he said. "All right, praise be to God. What's up?" "Remember how I
promised to let you know Wednes-day where this Jawarski guy's hidin' out?"
"Yeah, I was wondering when you'd check in." "Well, turns out I was maybe a little
optimistic." He sounded rueful.
"Had a feeling Jawarski'd cover his tracks pretty well."
"Got a feelin' he's had help, man." I sat up straight. "What do you mean?" There was a
pause before Morgan spoke again. "There's a lot of talk on the street about Shaknahyi's
shooting. Most people couldn't care less that a cop got dusted, but I can't find nobody with a
personal grudge against Shaknahyi himself. And Jawarski's crazy as a bed-bug, so nobody
I know would lift a finger to help him get clear."
I closed my eyes and massaged my forehead. "Then why haven't you or I located him yet?" I
asked.
"I'm comin' to that. What it comes down to is it looks like the cops are hidin' the son of a
bitch."
"Where? Why?" Chiri vouched for Morgan's depend-ability, but this story of his was a little
too incredible.
"Ask your Lieutenant Hajjar. He and Jawarski had some drinks together in the Silver Palm a
couple weeks ago."
In the words of the great Christian humorist, Mark Twain, this was too various for me. "Why
would Hajjar, a high-ranking police official, set up one of his own officers for a lunatic
escaped killer?"
I could almost hear Morgan shrug. "You think maybe Hajjar's involved with somethin'
crooked, man?"
I laughed sourly, and Morgan laughed too. "It's not funny, though," I said. "I guessed all along
that Hajjar was mixed up with something, but I didn't see him passing orders to Jawarski.
Still, it answers some of my own ques-tions."
"What's it all about, then?"
"It's about something called the Phoenix File. I don't know yet what the hell that means. Just
keep trying to pin down Jawarski, okay? You learn anything useful about him yet?"
"Some," said Morgan. "He was waitin' around in a jail cell in Khartoum, supposed to be
executed. Some guy smuggled a gun in to him. One afternoon Jawarski walks down a
corridor and meets two unarmed guards. He shoots the guys, then walks into the jail office
and starts firin" all around like a maniac till somebody hands over the keys. Then he unlocks
the big main doors and walks out calmly into the street. There's a crowd of people out there
'cause of the gunshots, and he pushes his way through 'em and goes half a block to a waitin'
car. Jawarski drives away and there's no sign of him again till he shows up here in the city."
"When was that?" I asked.
"Been here a month, maybe six weeks. Pulled a coupie of robberies, killed another couple
of people. Then the other day somebody recognized Jawarski in Meloul's and called the
cops. Hajjar sent Shaknahyi and you. You know the rest."
"I wonder," I said. "I wonder if somebody really rec-ognized him in the cookshop. Shaknahyi
thought that Haj-jar had fingered us, putting Jawarski in Meloul's and send-ing Jirji and me
over there to get taken down."
"Could be, man. We'll have to ask Jawarski when we collar him."
"Yeah, you right," I said grimly. "Thanks, Morgan. You keep nosing around."
"You got it, man. I want to earn the rest of that money. Take care of yourself."
"You bet," I said, clipping the phone to my belt again.
It helped that I knew more than my enemies did. I had the advantage of having my eyes
open. I still couldn't see where it all was leading me, but at least I understood the extent of
the conspiracy I was trying to uncover. I wouldn't be so foolish as to trust anyone entirely.
Anyone at all.
When the shift was over, I drove the patrol car back to the "police officers' lounge" and
picked up Sergeant Catavina, who had gotten very drunk. I dropped him off at the station
house, turned the car over to the night shift, and waited for Kmuzu to arrive. The workday
was done, but I still had plenty of investigating to do before I could go to sleep.
'Fuad il-manhous was not the brightest person I knew, pn One look at Fuad and you said to
yourself, "This guy U is a. fool." He looked like the character in a fairy tale who would get
three wishes from a djinn and blow the first on a plate of beans, the second on a spoon, and
the third on cleaning the dish and spoon when he was done eating.
He was tall, but so thin and starved-looking he might have been a refugee from the Benghazi
death camps. I once saw my friend Jacques circle Fuad's arm above the elbow with his
thumb and forefinger. And Fuad's joints were huge, swollen as if from some horrible bone
disease or vitamin deficiency. He had long, dirty brown hair that he combed into a high
pompadour, and he wore thick eyeglasses in heavy plastic frames. I don't suppose Fuad
had ever had enough cash to afford new eyes, not even the cheap Guatemalan ones with
the counterfeit Nikon lenses. His expression was permanently bewildered and hurt, because
Fuad was always a beat and a half behind the rest of the band.
// manhous means something like "the permanently hapless," yet Fuad didn't seem to mind
the nickname. In fact, he seemed happy to be recognized at all. And he played the part of
fool better than anyone I'd ever known. He had a certain genius for it, as a matter of fact.
I was sitting at a table in Chiriga's with Kmuzu, near the back. We were talking about what
my mother had been up to lately. Fuad il-manhous came and stood beside me, holding a
cardboard box. "Indihar lets me come in here in the daytime, Marid," he said in his raspy,
twangy voice.
"I got no problem with that," I said. He'd made me
forget what I'd been about to say. I looked up at him, and he grinned down and shook the
cardboard box. Some-thing inside made a rattling sound. "What's in the box?" I asked.
Fuad took that as an invitation to sit down. He dragged a chair over from another table,
making the legs shriek on the flooring. "Indihar said as long as nobody complained, it was
all right with her."
"What's all right?" I demanded impatiently. I hate having to pry information out of people.
"The hell you got in there?"
Fuad ran a gnarled hand through his greasy hair and shot Kmuzu a mistrustful look. Then he
hunched forward over the table, set the box down, and lifted the lid. There were maybe a
dozen cheap gold-filled chains inside. Fuad reached in with a long forefinger and poked
them around. "See?" he said.
"Uh huh," I said. I looked up and caught Kmuzu's eye. He was finishing a glass of iced tea—I
felt bad about tricking him into drinking so much liquor that time, and since then I'd
respected his feelings. He set his glass down carefully on the cocktail napkin. He was
keeping his face free of any expression, but I could tell that he didn't ap-prove of Fuad at all.
Kmuzu didn't approve of anything he saw in Chiri's.
"Where'd you get them, Fuad?" I said.
"Take a look." He grinned. His teeth were bad too.
I fished one of the chains out of the box and tried to examine it closely, but the light was too
dim in the club. I turned the price tag around. It said two hundred and fifty kiam. "Sure,
Fuad," I said dubiously. "The tourists and locals we get in here complain about paying eight
kiam for a drink. I think you're gonna have some sales resis-tance."
"Well, I'm not selling them for that much."
"How much are you selling them for?"
Il-Manhous closed his eyes, pretending to concen-trate. Then he looked at me as if he were
begging a favor. "Fifty kiam?"
I looked back into the box and pushed the chains around myself. Then I shook my head.
"Okay," said Fuad, "ten kiam, but yaa late efll won't make any profit that way."
"Maybe you could sell them for ten," I admitted. "The price tags are from some of the best
shops in town."
Fuad grabbed the box away from me. "So they're worth more than ten, huh?"
I laughed. "See," I said to Kmuzu, "the chains are cheap plated metal. Probably not worth
fifty fiqs. Fuad here goes into some exclusive boutique and steals some tags with the shop's
classy name on them and a price in three figures. Then he ties the tags to his junk jewelry
and hawks it to drunken tourists. He figures they might not notice what they're buying,
especially out of the bright sunlight."
"That's why I wanted to ask you if it'd be okay to come in during the night shift," said Fuad.
"It's even darker in here at night. I'd probably do a whole lot bet-ter."
"Nah," I said. "If Indihar wants to let you hustle tour-ists during the day, that's up to her. I'd
rather not have you doing it at night when I might be here."
"Beyond the Budayeen, yaa Sidi," Kmuzu pro-nounced ominously, "they'd cut his hands off if
they caught him doing that."
Fuad looked horrified. "You wouldn't let them do anything like that to me, would you, Marid?"
I shrugged. " 'As for the thief, both male and female, cut off their hands. It is the reward of
their own deeds, an exemplary punishment from Allah. Allah is Mighty, Wise.' That's right
from the blessed Qur'an. You could look it up."
Fuad clutched the box to his sunken chest. "You wait till you need something from me,
Marid!" he cried. Then he stumbled toward the door, knocking over a chair and bumping into
Pualani on the way.
"He'll get over it," I said to Kmuzu. "He'll be back in here tomorrow. Won't even remember
what you told him."
"That's too bad," said Kmuzu gravely. "Someday he'll try to sell one of those chains to the
wrong person. He may regret it for the rest of his life."
"Yeah, but that's what makes him Fuad. Anyway, I need to talk to Indihar before the shift
changes. You mind if I leave you alone for a couple of minutes?"
"Not at all, yaa Sidi." He stared at me blankly for a moment. It always unsettled me when he
did that.
"I'll have somebody bring you another iced tea," I said. Then I got up and went to the bar.
Indihar was rinsing glasses. I'd told her that she didn't have to come into work until she felt
better, but she said she'd rather work than sit home with her kids and feel bad. She needed
to make money to pay the babysitter, and she still had a lot of expenses from the funeral. All
the girls were tiptoeing around her, not knowing what to say to her or how to act. It made for
a pretty glum ambience in the club.
"Need something, Marid?" she said. Her eyes were red and sunken. She looked away from
me, back at the glasses in the sink.
"Another iced tea for Kmuzu, that's all," I said.
"All right." She bent to the refrigerator under the bar and brought up a pitcher of iced tea.
She poured a glassful and continued to pay no attention to me.
I looked down the bar. There were three new girls working the day shift. I could only
remember one of their names. "Brandi," I said, "take this to that tall guy in the back."
"You mean that kaffir?" she said. She was short, with fat arms and plump thighs, with large
breast implants and brushy hair whose blondness had been artificially encour-aged. She
had tattoos on both arms, above her right breast, on her left shoulder blade, peeking out of
her G-string, on both ankles, and on her ass. I think she was embarrassed by them, because
she always wore a fringy black shawl when she sat with customers at the bar, and when she
danced she wore bright red platform shoes and high white socks. "Want me to collect from
him?"
I shook my head. "He's my driver. He drinks for free."
Brandi nodded and carried the iced tea away. I stayed at the bar, idly spinning one of the
round cork coasters. "Indihar," I said at last.
She gave me a weary look. "I said I didn't want to hear you say you were sorry."
I raised a hand. "I'm not gonna say that. I just think you should accept some help now. For
your kids' sake, if not your own. I would've been happy to pay for a tomb in
your in-laws' cemetery. Chiri'd be glad to lend you all the money—"
Indihar let out an exasperated breath and wiped her hands on a bar towel. "That's something
else I don't want to hear. Jirji and I never borrowed money. I'm not gonna start now."
"Sure, okay, but the situation is different. How much pension are you getting from the police
department?"
She threw the towel down disgustedly. "A third of Jirji's salary. That's all. And they're giving
me some kind of song and dance about a delay. They don't think I can start collecting the
pension for at least six months. We were barely keeping our noses above water before. I
don't know how I'll make it now. I guess I'll have to look for someplace cheaper to live."
My first thought was that any place cheaper than the apartment in Haffe al-Khala wouldn't be
fit to raise chil-dren in. "Maybe," I said. "Look, Indihar, I think you've earned a paid vacation.
Why don't you just let me pay you for two or three weeks in advance, and you can stay home
with Zahra and Hakim and Little Jirji. Or you could use the time to make some extra money,
maybe—"
Brandi came back to the bar and plopped down be-side me with a contemptuous look on
her face. "Mother-fucker didn't give me a tip," she said.
I looked at her. She probably wasn't any smarter than Fuad. "I told you, Kmuzu drinks for
free. I don't want you hustling him."
"Who is he, your special friend?" Brandi asked with a crooked smile.
I looked at Indihar. "How badly you want this bitch to keep working here?" I said.
Brandi hopped off the stool and headed toward the dressing room. "All right, all right," she
said, "forget I said anything."
"Marid," said Indihar in a low, carefully controlled voice, "leave me alone. No loans, no deals,
no presents. Okay? Just have enough respect for me to let me work everything out my own
way."
I couldn't argue with her anymore. "Whatever you want," I said. I turned away and went back
to Kmuzu's table. I truly wished Indihar had let me help her some-how. I'd gained a
tremendous amount of admiration for her. She was a fine, intelligent woman, and kind of on
the beautiful side too.
I had a couple of drinks and killed some time, and then it was eight o'clock. Chiri and the
night crew came in, and I watched Indihar count out the register, pay the day shift girls, and
leave without saying another word to anyone. I went to the bar to say hello to Chiri. "I think
Indihar's trying too hard to be brave," I told her.
She sat on her stool behind the bar and surveyed the
seven or eight customers. "Yesterday she was telling me
about her twelfth birthday," Chiri said in a distant voice.
"She said she'd known Jirji all her life. They both grew up
in the same little village. She always liked Jirji, and when
her parents told her that they'd arranged with the Shaknahyis for the two kids to be married,
Indihar was happy."
Chiri leaned down and brought out her private bottle fof tende. She poured herself half a
glassful and tasted it.
"Indihar had a traditional childhood," she said. "Her folks were very old-fashioned and
superstitious. She grew up in Egypt, where there's this old wives' tale that girls who drink the
water of the Nile grow up too passionate. They exhaust their poor husbands. So it's the
custom for the girls to be circumcised before their weddings." "Lots of country Muslims still
do that," I said.
Chiri nodded. "The village midwife cut Indihar and put onions and salt on the wound. Indihar
stayed in bed for seven days afterward, and her mother fed her lots of chicken and
pomegranates. When she finally got up again, her mother gave her a new dress she'd just
finished mak-ing. Indihar's clitoris was sewn up in the lining. Together the two of them took
the dress and threw it into the river."
I shuddered. "Why you telling me all this?"
Chiri swallowed some more tende. "So you'll under-stand how much Jirji meant to Indihar.
She told me the circumcision was very painful, but she was glad to have it done. It meant
she was finally a grown woman, and she could marry Jirji with the blessings of her family and
friends."
"I suppose it's none of my business," I said.
"I'll tell you what's none of your business: badgering her about her financial situation. Leave
her alone, Marid.
Your intentions are good, and it was right to offer help after Jirji was killed. But Indihar's said
she doesn't want our money, and you're making her feel worse by bringing it up all the time."
I let my shoulders sag. "I guess I didn't realize it," I said. "All right, thanks for letting me
know."
"She'll be fine. And if she runs into trouble, she'll let us know. Now, I want you to put in a good
word with Kmuzu. I like the way that honey looks."
I raised my eyebrows at her. "You just trying to make me jealous? Kmuzu? He's not a party
kind of guy, you know. You'd eat him alive."
"I'd sure like to give it a shot," she said with her best file-toothed grin.
Time for another shot in the dark. "Chiri," I said, "What do the letters A.L.M. mean to you?"
She thought about that for a little while. "The Associ-ation of Lesbian Mothers," she said.
"This girl Hanina, used to dance by Frenchy's. She used to get their newslet-ter. Why?"
I chewed my lip. "That can't be right. If you think of something else A.L.M. might mean, let me
know."
"Okay, honey. What is it, some kind of puzzle?"
"Yeah, a puzzle."
"Well, I'll think about it." She drank a little tende and stared over my head at the mirrored wall
behind me. "So what's this I hear about you flushing all your recreational drugs? Never
thought I'd see the day. We gonna have to find a new chemical champion?"
"I guess so. I emptied my pillcase right after Jirji died."
Chin's expression became serious. "Uh yeah."
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few sec-onds. "I'll tell you, though," I said at last,
"I've had these strong cravings. It's been pretty hard on me, but I'm keep-ing away from the
drugs."
"Cutting back is one thing, but quitting altogether seems kind of extreme. I suppose it's for
the best, but I've always believed in moderation in all things, and that goes for abstinence
too."
I smiled. "I appreciate your concern," I said, "but I know what I'm doing."
Chiri shook her head sadly. "I hope so. I hope you're
not just kidding yourself. You don't have much experience handling yourself sober. You could
get hurt."
"I'll be fine, Chiri."
"Maybe you should pass by Laila's shop in the morn-ing. She's got these moddies that
make you feel like you've taken a handful of pills. She's got the whole line: sunnies, beauties,
tri-phets, RPM, whatever you want. You chip the moddy in and if you need to use your brain
for something later, you pop it out and you're straight again."
"I don't know. Sounds dumb to me."
Chiri spread her hands. "It's up to you."
"Make me a gin and bingara?" I didn't want to talk about drugs anymore. I was beginning to
feel the craving again.
I watched Yasmin dance on stage while Chiri built my drink. Yasmin was still the prettiest
collection of XY chro-mosomes I've ever known. Since we'd gotten friendly again, she told
me she was sorry she'd cut her long black hair. She was letting it grow back. As she moved
sensu-ously to the music, she kept glancing down at me. Every time she caught my eye, she
smiled. I smiled back.
"Here you go, boss," said Chiri, setting the drink on a * coaster in front of me.
"Thanks," I said. I picked it up, threw a sizzling look toward Yasmin, and went back to sit with
Kmuzu. "Say," I said, "you've got a secret admirer. You know that?"
Kmuzu looked perplexed. "What do you mean, tiarri ?” Stair grinned at him. "I think Chiriga
would like to ele-vate your pulse rate."
"That is not possible," he said. He looked very dis-turbed.
"Don't you like her? She's really a very nice person. Don't be scared off by that headhunter
routine of hers."
"It's not that, yaa Sidi. I do not plan to marry until I am no longer a slave."
I laughed. "That fits in fine with Chiri's plans. I don't think she wants to get married, either."
"I told you when we first met that I am a Christian."
Chiri came over to the table and joined us before I could say anything more. "Kmuzu, how
you doin?" she said.
"I am well, Miss Chiriga," he said. His tone was almost icy.
"Well, I was wondering if you'd ever made it with anybody who was wearing Honey Pilar's
latest. Slow, Slow Burn. It's my favorite of all of hers. Leaves me so weak I can barely get up
out of bed."
"Miss Chiriga—"
"You can call me Chiri, honey."
"—I wish you'd stop making sexual advances to me."
Chiri looked at me and raised her eyebrows. "Am I making sexual advances? I was just
asking if he'd ever made it—"
"Did I hear that Honey Pilar's getting divorced again?" said Rani, one of the night-shift debs
who'd wan-dered over to our table. Evidently none of the customers were tipping or buying
anybody cocktails. I knew it was a slow night when Kmuzu and I were the most interesting
thing happening in the club.
Chiri looked aggravated. "Somebody get up on the goddamn stage and dance!" she
shouted. Then she stood up and went back behind the bar. Lily, the pretty Belgian
sexchange, took off her blouse and went to play her music.
"I think I've had about enough of all this excitement," I said, yawning. "Kmuzu, come on. Let's
go home."
Yasmin came up and put her hand on my arm. "Will you come in tomorrow?" she asked. "I
need to talk to you about something personal."
"You want to talk right now?"
She looked away, embarrassed. "No," she said. "Some other time. But I wanted to give you
this." She held out her pocket / Ching calculator. She swore by the / Ching, and she still
believed that it had accurately foretold all the terrible events of several months ago. "Maybe
you need it again."
"I don't think so," I said. "Why don't you keep it?"
She put it in my hand and closed my fingers over it. Then she kissed me. It was a gentle,
unhurried kiss on the lips. I was surprised to find that it left me trembling.
I said goodnight to Chiri and the debs and changes, and Kmuzu followed me out into the
warm, raucous night on the Street. We walked back down to the gate and found the car. All
the way home, Kmuzu explained to me that he found Chiri too brazen and shameless.
"But you think she's sexy?" I asked him.
"That's beside the point, yaa Sidi," he said. From then on, he just concentrated on his
driving.
After we got back to Friedlander Bey's estate, I went to my suite and tried to relax. I took a
notebook and stretched out on my bed, trying to order my thoughts. I looked at Yasmin's
electronic I Ching and laughed softly. For no particular reason, I pressed the white button
marked H. The little device played its tinkling tune, and a synthesized woman's voice spoke
up. "Hexagram Six. Sung. Conflict. Changes in the first, second, and sixth lines."
I listened to the judgment and the commentary, and then I pressed L for the lines. What it all
amounted to was a warning that I was in a difficult period, and that if I tried to force my way
toward my goal, I'd encounter a lot of conflict. I didn't need a pocket computer to tell me that.
The image was "Heaven above the waters," and I was advised to stay close to home. The
problem was that it was just a little too late for that. "If you determine to confront the
difficulties," the mechanical woman cautioned, "you'll make minor progress that will soon be
reversed, leaving you in a worse situation than before. Sidestep this trouble by tending your
garden and ignoring your powerful ad-versaries."
Well, hell, I would have loved to do just that. I could have forgotten all about Abu Adil and all
about Jawarski, just written Shaknahyi off as a painful tragedy, and let Papa deal with Umm
Saad by ordering the Stones That Speak to twist her devious head off. I could have left my
mother a fat envelope of cash, kissed Chiriga's club good-bye, and caught the next bus out
of the city.
Unfortunately, none of that was possible. I stared at the toy / Ching ruefully, then
remembered that the changing lines gave me a second hexagram that might indicate where
events were leading. I pressed CH.
"Hexagram Seventeen. Sui. Following. Thunder in the lake." Whatever that meant. I was told
that I was coming into very positive circumstances. All I had to do was attune my actions into
harmony with the personali-ties of the people I had to deal with. I just had to adapt my own
desires to the needs of the times.
"Okay," I said, "that's just what 111 do. I just need someone to tell me what 'the needs of the
times' are."
"Such fortune telling is blasphemous," said Kmuzu. "Every orthodox religion in the world
forbids it." I hadn't heard him come into my room.
"The idea of synchronicity makes a certain logical sense," I said. Actually, I felt pretty much
about the / Ching as he did, but I felt it was my job to bait him as much as possible. Maybe
something would get him to loosen up a little.
"You are dealing with dangerous people, yaa Sidi," he said. "Surely your actions must be
governed by reason, not by this child's plaything."
I tossed Yasmin's gimmick to him. "You're right, Kmuzu. Something like that could be
dangerous, in the hands of a gullible fool."
"I'll return it to Miss Yasmin tomorrow."
"Fine," I said,
"Will you need anything more tonight?"
"No, Kmuzu, I'm just gonna make some notes to my-self, and then I'll get some sleep."
"Then goodnight, yaa Sidi."
"Goodnight, Kmuzu." He closed the door to my bed-room behind him.
I got up and undressed, then pulled back the covers on my bed and laid down again. I began
listing names in my notebook: Friedlander Bey, Reda Abu Adil and Umar Abdul-Qawy, Paul
Jawarski, Umm Saad, Lieutenant Haj-jar. The bad guys. Then I made a list of the good guys:
me.
I remembered a proverb I'd heard as a child in Al-giers. "Fleeing when it is not necessary is
better than not fleeing when it is necessary." A quick trip to Shanghai or Venice seemed like
the only reasonable response to this situation.
I suppose I fell asleep thinking about stuffing a bag full of clothes and money and running off
into the honey-suckle-scented night. I was having a bizarre dream about Chiriga's.
Lieutenant Hajjar seemed to be running the place, and I went in looking for somebody who
might have been Yasmin or possibly Fayza, one of my adolescent 'oves. There was some
kind of argument with my mother bout whether or not I'd brought in a case of bottled sherbet,
and then I was in school without any clothes on, and I hadn't studied for some important
exam.
Someone was shaking me and shouting. "Wake up, yaa Sidi!"
"What is it, Kmuzu?" I said blearily. "What's the mat-ter?"
"The house is on fire!" he said. He pulled on my arm until I got out of bed.
"I don't see any fire." I could smell the smoke, though.
"This whole floor is burning. We don't have much time. We've got to get out."
I was completely awake now. I could see a heavy layer of smoke hanging in the bright
moonlight that slanted in through the lattice-covered windows. "I'm all right, Kmuzu," I said.
"I'll wake Friedlander Bey. Do you think the whole house is on fire, or just this wing?" "I'm not
sure, yaa Sidi."
"Then run over to the east wing and wake my mother. Make sure she gets out all right." "And
Umm Saad as well."
"Yeah, you right." He hurried out of my room. Before I went out into the hall, I stopped td find
the telephone on my desk. I punched the city's emergency number, but the line was busy. I
muttered a curse and tried again. Still the line was busy. I kept calling and calling; it seemed
like hours went by before a woman's voice answered. "Fire," I cried. I was frantic by that
time. "The Friedlander Bey estate near the Christian Quarter."
"Thank you, sir," said the woman. "The fire brigade is on its way."
The air had gotten very bad, and the acrid smoke burned my nose and throat as I bent lower
trying to breathe. I paused at the entrance to the suite, and then ran back to find my jeans. I
know you're supposed to get out of a burning building as quickly as possible, but I still hadn't
seen any actual flames and I didn't feel as if I were in any immediate danger. It turned out
that I was wrong; while I stopped to pull on my jeans, I was already being burned by the hot
ash in the air. I didn't feel it at the time, but I was getting second-degree burns on my head,
neck, and shoulders, which were bare. My hair was badly
singed, but my beard protected my face. I've since prom-ised myself that I'm never going to
shave it off again.
I first saw flames in the corridor. The heat was in-tense. I ran with my arms around my head,
trying to shield my face and eyes. The soles of my feet were badly scorched within ten feet
of my apartment. I pounded on Papa's door, sure that I was going to die right there, bravely
but foolishly attempting to rescue an old man who was likely already dead. A stray thought
lodged in my consciousness, the memory of Friedlander Bey asking me if I had the courage
to fill my lungs again with fire.
There was no response. I knocked louder. The fire was blistering the skin on my back and
arms, and I'd begun to choke. I took a step back, raised my right leg, and kicked the door as
hard as I could. Nothing happened. It was locked, and the bolt had probably expanded in the
heat. I kicked again, and this time the wooden frame around the lock splintered. One more
kick and the door sprang back, slamming in against the wall of Papa's parlor. "O Shaykh!" I
shouted. The smoke billowed even more densely here. There was the sharp smell of burning
plastic in the air, and I knew that I had to get Papa out quickly, before he and I were
overcome by poisonous fumes. That made me even less hopeful of finding Fried-;nder Bey
alive. His bedroom was back and to the left, dnd that door was closed and locked too. I
kicked it in, paying no attention to the stabbing pain that shot through my ankle and shin. I'd
have time to nurse my injuries later —if I lived.
Papa was awake, lying on his back in bed, his hands clutching the sheet that covered him. I
ran to him, and his eyes followed my every movement. He opened his mouth to speak, but
no sound came out. He raised one hand ebly. I didn't have time for whatever he was trying to
communicate. I just threw back the covers and scooped him up as if he'd been a child. He
was not a tall man, but e'd put on a moderate amount of weight since the days of ;s athletic
prime. It didn't matter; I carried him out of -ie bedroom with a maniac strength that I knew
wouldn't ;st very long. "Fire!" I shouted as I crossed the parlor jain. "Fire! Fire!" The Stones
That Speak had their )oms adjoining Papa's. I didn't dare set him down to
rouse the Stones. I had to keep fighting my way through the flames toward safety.
Just as I reached the far end of the corridor, the two huge men came up behind me. Neither
said a word. They were both as naked as the day they'd been born, but that didn't seem to
bother them. One of them took Fried-lander Bey from me. The other picked me up and
carried me the rest of the way, down the stairs and out into the clean, fresh air.
The Stone must have realized how badly I was hurt, how exhausted I was, and how close to
collapse I'd come. I was terrifically grateful to him, but I didn't have the strength to thank him. I
promised myself that I'd do some-thing for the Stones as soon as I was able—maybe buy
them a few infidels to torture. I mean, what do you get the Gog and Magog who have
everything?
The firemen were already setting up their equipment when Kmuzu came to see how I was.
"Your mother is safe," he said. "There was no fire in the east wing."
"Thank you, Kmuzu," I said. The inside of my nose was raw and painful, and my throat hurt.
One of the firemen rinsed me with sterile water, then wrapped me in a sheet and rinsed me
again. "Here," he said, handing me a glass of water. "This'll make your mouth and throat feel
better. You're gonna have to go to the hospital."
"Why?" I asked. I hadn't yet realized how badly I was burned.
"I will go with you, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.
"Papa?" I said.
"He also needs immediate medical attention," said Kmuzu.
"We'll go together then," I said.
The firemen led me to an ambulance. Friedlander Bey had already been put on a stretcher
and lifted inside. Kmuzu helped me up into the vehicle. He beckoned to-ward me, and I
leaned down toward him. "While you're recuperating in the hospital," he said softly, "I will
see if I can learn who set this fire."
I looked at him for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts. I blinked and realized that all my
eyelashes had been burned off. "You think it's arson?" I said.
The ambulance driver closed one of the rear doors. "I have proof," said Kmuzu. Then the
driver closed the sec-ond door. A moment later, Papa and I were speeding through the
constricted streets, siren screaming. Papa didn't move on his stretcher. He looked pitifully
frail. I didn't feel so well myself. I suppose it was my punishment for laughing at Hexagram
Six.



         y mother had brought me pistachio nuts and fresh figs, but I was still having some
trouble swallowing. "Then have some of this," she said. "I even brought a spoon." She took
the lid from a plastic bowl and set it on the hospital tray table. She was very self-conscious
about this visit.
I was sedated, but not as sedated as I could have been. Still, a mild dose of Sonneine from
a perfusor is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Of course, I own an
experimental daddy that blocks pain, and I could have chipped it in and stayed completely
clearheaded and lu-cid. I just didn't want to use it. I hadn't told my doctors and nurses about
it, because I'd rather have the drug. Hospitals are too tedious to endure sober.
I lifted my head from the pillow. "What is it?" I asked in a hoarse voice. I leaned forward and
took the plastic bowl.
"Curdled camel's milk," said my mother. "You used to love that when you were sick. When
you were little." I thought I detected an uncharacteristic softness in her voice.
Curdled camel's milk doesn't sound like something that could get you to jump out of bed with
glee. It isn't, and I didn't. I picked up the spoon, however, and made a show of enjoying it just
to please her. Maybe if I ate some of the stuff, she'd be satisfied and leave. Then I could call
for another shot of Sonneine and take a nice nap. That's what was worst about being in the
hospital: reassuring all the visitors and listening to the histories of their own ill-nesses and
accidents, which were always of far more trau-matic proportions than yours.
"You were really worried about me, Marid?" she asked.
"Course I was," I said, letting my head fall back to the pillow. "That's why I sent Kmuzu to
make sure you were safe."
She smiled sadly and shook her head. "Maybe you'd be happier if I'd burned up in the fire.
Then you wouldn't be embarrassed about me no more."
"Don't worry about it, Mom."
"Okay, honey," she said. She looked at me in silence for a long moment. "How are your
burns?"
I shrugged, and that made me wince. "They still hurt. The nurses come in and slather this
white gunk on me a couple of times a day."
"Well, I suppose it's good for you. You just let 'em do what they want."
"Right, Mom."
There was another awkward silence. "I suppose there's things I ought to tell you," she said at
last. "I ain't been completely honest with you."
"Oh?" This wasn't any surprise, but I thought I'd swallow the sarcastic comments that came
to mind, and let her tell her story her own way.
She stared down at her hands, which were twisting a frayed linen handkerchief in her lap. "I
know a lot more about Friedlander Bey and Reda Abu Adil than I told you."
"Ah," I said.
She glanced up at me. "I known both of 'em from before. From even before you was born,
when I was a young girl. I was a lot better looking in those days. I wanted to get out of
Sidi-bel-Abbes, maybe go someplace like Cairo or Jerusalem, be a holoshow star. Maybe
get wired and make some moddies, not sex moddies like Honey Pilar, but something classy
and respectable."
"So did Papa or Abu Adil promise to make you a star?"
She looked back down at her hands. "I came here, to the city. I didn't have no money when I
got here, and I went hungry for a while. Then I met somebody who took care of me for a
while, and he introduced me to Abu Adil."
"And what did Abu Adil do for you?"
Again she looked up, but now tears were slipping down her cheeks. "What do you think?"
she said in a bitter voice.
"He promise to marry you?" She just shook her head. "He get you pregnant?"
"No. In the end, he just laughed at me and handed me this bus ticket back to
Sidi-bel-Abbes." Her expression grew fierce. "I hate him, Marid."
I nodded. I was sorry now that she'd begun this con-fession. "So you're not telling me that
Abu Adil is my father, right? What about Friedlander Bey?"
"Papa was always good to me when I first came to the city. That's why even though I was so
mad at you for finding me in Algiers, I was glad to hear that Papa was taking care of you."
"Some people hate him, you know," I said.
She stared at me, then shrugged. "I went back to Sidi-bel-Abbes, after all, and then after a
few years I met your father. It was like my life was passing so fast. You were born, and then
you got older and left Algiers. Then more years went by. Finally, right after you came to see
me, I got a message from Abu Adil. He said he'd been thinking about me and wanted to see
me again."
She had gotten agitated, and now she paused until she calmed down a little. "I believed
him," she said. "I don't know why. Maybe I thought I could have a second chance to live my
life, get back all those years I lost, fix all the mistakes. Anyway, goddamn if I didn't fuck up all
over again."
I shut my eyes and rubbed them. Then I looked at my mother's anguished face. "What did
you do?"
"I moved in with Abu Adil again. In that big place he's got in the slums. That's how I know all
about him, and about Umm Saad. You got to watch out for her, baby. She works for Abu
Adil, and she's planning to ruin Papa."
"I know."
My mother looked bewildered. "You know already? How?"
I smiled. "Abu Adil's little fuck-buddy told me. They've pretty much written off Umm Saad.
She's not part of their plans anymore."
"Still," said my mother, raising a warning finger, "you got to watch out for her. She's got her
own schemes in the fire."
"Yeali, I guess so."
"You know about Abu Adil's moddy? The one he's made of himself?"
"Uh huh. That son of a bitch Umar told me all about it. I'd like to get my hands on it for a few
minutes."
She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Maybe I could think of a way."
Yipe. That's all I needed. "It's not that important, Mom," I told her.
She began to weep again. "I'm so sorry, Marid. I'm so sorry for everything I done, for not
being the kind of mother you needed."
Jeez, I really wasn't feeling well enough to deal with her attack of conscience. "I'm sorry too,
Mom," I said, and I was surprised to realize that I truly meant it. "I never showed you the
respect—"
"I never earned no respect—"
I raised both hands. "Why don't we stop before we're fighting over who's hurt who the most?
Let's call a truce or something."
"Maybe we could start over again?" Her voice had a peculiar shyness to it.
I had a lot of doubt about all of this. I didn't know if it was possible to start over again,
especially after all that had happened between us, but I thought I could give her a chance.
"That's fine with me," I said. "I got no love for the past."
She smiled crookedly. "I like living in Papa's house with you, baby. It makes me think I won't
have to go back to Algiers and . . . you know."
I took a deep breath and let it out. "I promise you, Mom," I said, "you'll never have to go back
to that life again. Just let me take care of you from now on."
She got up and came toward my bed, her arms out-stretched, but I wasn't quite ready for an
exchange of mother-son affection. I have a little trouble expressing my feelings, I guess, and
I've never been a very demonstra-tive person. I let her bend down and kiss my cheek and
give me a hug, and she murmured something that I couldn't make out. I kind of patted her on
the back. It was the best I could manage. Then she went back to her chair.
She sighed. "You made me very happy, Marid. Hap-pier than I got a right to be. All I ever
wanted was a chance for a normal life."
Well, what the hell, what did it cost me? "What do you want to do, Mom?" I asked.
She frowned. "I don't really know. Something useful. Something real."
I had a ludicrous image of Angel Monroe as a candy-striper in the hospital. I dismissed the
notion immediately. "Abu Adil brought you to the city to spy on Papa, right?"
"Yeah, and I was a sucker to think he really wanted me."
"And on what kind of terms did you leave him? Would you be willing to spy on him for us?"
She looked doubtful. "I really let him know I didn't like being used," she said. "If I went back
there, I don't know if he'd believe I was sorry. But maybe he would. He's got a big ego, you
know. Men like that, they always think their women'd walk through fire for 'em. I suppose I
could make him buy it." She gave me a wry grin. "I was always a good actress. Khalid used
to tell me I was the best."
Khalid, I remembered, had been her pimp. "Let me think about it, Mom. I wouldn't get you
into anything dangerous, but I'd like to have a secret weapon Abu Adil didn't know anything
about."
"Well, anyway, I feel like I owe Papa something. For letting Abu Adil use me like that, and for
all Papa's done for me since I came to live in his house."
I wasn't crazy about letting my mother get involved any further with the intrigue, but I was
aware that she might be a wonderful source of information. "Mom," I said casually, "what do
the letters A.L.M. mean to you?"
"A.L.M.? I don't know. Nothing, really. The Alliance of Lingerie Models? That's a hooker's
trade union, but I don't even know if they got a local in this city."
"Never mind. How about the Phoenix File? That ring a bell?"
I saw her flinch just a little. "No," she said slowly, "I never heard of that at all." There was
something about the way she said it, though, that persuaded me she was lying. I wondered
what she was hiding now. It took the optimistic edge off our previous conversation, making
me doubt how much I could trust her. It wasn't the right time to pursue the matter, but there'd
be a moment of truth when I got out of the hospital again.
"Mom," I said, yawning, "I'm getting kind of sleepy."
"Oh, baby, I'll go then." She got up and fussed with my covers. "I'll leave the curdled camel's
milk with you."
"Great, Mom."
She bent and kissed me again. "I'll be back tomorrow. I'm gonna see how Papa's doing
now."
"Give him my regards and tell him that I pray to Allah for his well-being." She went to the
door, turned, and waved to me. Then she was gone.
The door had barely shut before a thought struck me: The only person who knew that I'd
gone to visit my mother in Algiers had been Saied the Half-Hajj. He must have located Mom
for Reda Abu Adil. It must have been Saied who'd brought her to the city to spy on Papa and
me. Saied had to be working for Abu Adil. He'd sold me out.
I promised myself still another moment of truth, one that the Half-Hajj would never forget.
Whatever the goal of the conspiracy, whatever the significance of the Phoenix File, it must
be tremendously urgent to Abu Adil. In the past few months, he'd set Saied, Kmuzu, and
Umm Saad to pry into our affairs. I wondered how many others there were that I hadn't
identified yet.
Later that afternoon, just before suppertime, Kmuzu came to visit. He was dressed in a
white shirt, no tie, and a black suit. He looked like an undertaker. His expression was
solemn, as if one of the nurses outside had just told him that my situation was hopeless.
Maybe my burned hair would never grow back, or I'd have to live with that awful, cold white
gunk on my skin for the rest of my life.
"How are you feeling, yaa Sidi?" he asked.
"I'm suffering from Delayed Post-Fire Stress Syn-drome," I said. "I'm just realizing how close
I came to not making it. If you hadn't been there to wake me up—"
"You would have been roused by the fire if you hadn't been using the sleep add-on."
I hadn't thought of that. "I suppose," I said. "Still, I owe you my life."
"You rescued the master of the house, yaa Sidi. He shelters me and protects me from Reda
Abu Adil. You and I are even."
"I still feel I'm in your debt." How much was my life worth to me? Could I give him something
of equivalent value? "How would you like your freedom?" I asked.
Kmuzu's brows drew together. "You know that lib-erty is what I desire most. You also know
it's in the hands of the master of the house. It's up to him."
I shrugged. "I have a certain amount of influence with Papa. I'll see what I can do."
"I would be most grateful, yaa Sidi." Kmuzu's expres-sion had become noncommittal, but I
knew he wasn't as cool as he was pretending.
We talked for a few minutes more, and then he got up to go. He reassured me that my
mother and our servants would be safe enough, inshallah. We had two dozen armed guards.
Of course, they hadn't prevented someone from entering the grounds and torching the west
wing. Collusion, espionage, arson, attempted murder—it had been a long while since
Papa's enemies had so noisily expressed their displeasure.
After Kmuzu left, I got bored very quickly. I turned on the holoset fixed to the furniture across
from my bed. It wasn't a very good unit and the projection coordinates were off by a
considerable margin. The vertical variable needed adjusting; the actors in some
contemporary Cen-tral European drama struggled along knee-deep in the dresser. The
elaborate production was subtitled, but un-fortunately the captions were lost, out of sight with
the actors' legs in my sock drawer. Whenever there was a close-up, I'd see the person only
from the top of his head to the bottom of his nose.
I didn't think I'd care, because at home I don't watch much holo. In the hospital, however,
where the order of the day was boredom, I found myself turning it on again and again all day
long. I browsed through a hundred chan-nels from around the world, and I never found
anything worth watching. That might have been due to my semi-stoned state and my lack of
concentration; or it might have been the fault of the little amputated figures wading around on
the dresser, speaking a dozen different lan-guages.
So I bailed out of the Thuringian tragedy and told the holoset to turn itself off. Then I got out of
bed mi mm «• my robe. That was kind of uncomfortable beane «f mf burns and also
because of the white gunk; I hated the m*y it felt, stuck to my hospital gown. I stuck my feet to
the green paper slippers the hospital provided, and headed for the door.
An orderly, was coming in just as I was going out, carrying a tray with my lunch. I was pretty
hungry and my mouth began to water, even before I found out what was on the plates. I
decided to stay in the room until after 1 ate. "What do we have?" I asked.
The orderly set it down on my tray table. "You got -.asty fried liver," he said. His tone let me
know it wasn't my thing to look forward to.
"I'll eat it later." I left my room and walked slowly down the corridor. I spoke my name to the
elevator, and n a few seconds the car arrived. I didn't know how much freedom of movement
I had.
When the elevator asked me what floor I wanted, I isked for Friedlander Bey's room number.
"VIP Suite One," it told me.
"What floor is that on?" I asked. "Twenty." That was as high as you could go. This hospital
was one of only three in the city with VIP suites. It was the same hospital where I'd had my
brainwork lone, less than a year before. I liked having a private room, but I didn't really need
a suite. I didn't really feel like entertaining.
"Do you wish the twentieth floor?" the elevator asked.
"You bet."
"Do you wish the twentieth floor?" "Yes," I said. It was a stupid elevator. I stood hunched over
while it traveled slowly from the fifteenth floor to the twentieth. I was looking for a posture that
didn't feel sticky and squishy, and I wasn't having any luck. I was also starting to get very sick
of the white gunk's intense pep-permint smell.
I got off on Twenty, and the first thing I saw was a beefy, thick-necked woman in a white
uniform sitting in the middle of a circular nurse's station. There was a mus-cular man nearby
too, dressed in a Eur-Am style security guard outfit. He had a huge seizure cannon
bolstered on his hip, and he looked at me as if he were deciding whether or not to let me
live.
"You're a patient in this hospital," said the nurse. Well, she was at least as bright as the
elevator.
"Room 1540," I said.
"This is the twentieth floor. What are you doing here?"
"I want to visit Friedlander Bey."
"Just a moment." She frowned and consulted her computer terminal. From her tone of voice,
it was obvious she didn't think anyone as scruffy as me could possibly be on her list of
approved visitors. "Your name?"
"Marid Audran."
"Well, here you are." She glanced up at me. I thought maybe when she found my name on
the list, she'd show a little grudging respect. No such luck. "Zain, show Mr. Audran to Suite
One," she told the guard.
Zain nodded. "Right this way, sir," he said. I followed him down a lushly carpeted hallway,
turned into a cross corridor, and stopped outside the door to Suite One.
I wasn't surprised to see one of the Stones standing sentry duty. "Habib?" I said. I thought I
saw his expression flicker just a bit. I pushed by him, half-expecting him to reach out his
brawny arm to stop me, but he let me pass. I think both Stones accepted me now as
Friedlander Bey's deputy.
Inside the suite, the lights were turned off and the shades drawn on the windows. There were
flowers every-where, jammed into vases and growing from elaborate pots. The sweet
fragrance was almost sickening; if it had been my room, I would have told a nurse to give
some of the flowers to other sick people in the hospital.
Papa lay motionless in his bed. He didn't look well. I knew he'd been burned as badly as I'd
been, and his face and arms had been smeared with the same white gunk. His hair was
neatly combed, but he hadn't been shaved in a few days, probably because his skin was still
too painful. He was awake, but his eyelids drooped. The Sonneine was knocking him out; he
didn't have my tolerance.
There was a second room adjoining, and I could see Youssef, Papa's butler, and Tariq, his
valet, sitting at a table playing cards. They started to get up, but I signaled
that they should go on with their game. I sat in a chair beside Papa's bed. "How do you feel,
O Shaykh?" I said.
He opened his eyes, but I could see that it was difficult for him to stay awake. "I am being
well cared for, my nephew," he said.
That wasn't what I'd asked, but I let it pass. "I pray every hour for your return to health."
He attempted a weak smile. "It is good that you pray." He paused to take a deep breath.
"You risked your life to save me."
I spread my hands. "I did what I had to."
"And you suffered pain and injury on my account."
"It is of small consequence. The important thing is that you are alive."
"I owe you a great debt," said the old man wearily.
I shook my head. "It was only what Allah decreed. I was but His servant."
He frowned. Despite the Sonneine, he was still in discomfort. "When I am well, and we are
both again at home, you must allow me to find a gift equal to your deed."
Oh no, I thought, not another gift from Papa. "In the meantime," I said, "how may I serve
you?"
"Tell me: How did the fire start?"
"It was clumsily done, O Shaykh," I said. "Immedi-ately after we escaped, Kmuzu found
matches and half-burnt rags soaked in some flammable fluid."
Papa's expression was grim, almost murderous. "I feared as much. Do you have any other
clues? Whom do you suspect, O my nephew?"
"I know nothing more, but I will investigate the mat-ter tirelessly when I leave the hospital."
He seemed satisfied for the moment. "You must promise me one thing," he said.
"What do you wish, O Shaykh?"
"When you learn the identity of the arsonist, he must die. We cannot appear weak to our
enemies."
Somehow I just knew he was going to say that. I was going to have to get a little pocket
notebook just to keep track of everybody I was supposed to murder for him. "Yes," I said,
"he will die." I didn't promise that I, person-ally, would kill the son of a bitch. I mean,
everybody dies. I thought I might turn the matter over to the Stones That
Speak. They were like pet leopards; you had to take them off their leashes now and then
and let them run around to catch their own meal.
"Good," said Friedlander Bey. He let his eyes close.
"There are two more matters, O Shaykh," I said hesi-tantly.
He looked at me again. His expression was agonized. "I am sorry, my nephew. I do not feel
well. Even before the fire, I was suffering from some illness. The pain in my head and belly
has grown worse."
"Have the doctors here explained it?"
"No, they are fools. They tell me they can find noth-ing wrong. There are always more tests
they wish to run. I am plagued by incompetence and tortured with indig-nity."
"You must put yourself in their hands, my uncle," I said. "I was treated very well in this
hospital."
"Yes, but you were not a frail old man, clinging hope-lessly to life. Every one of their
barbarous procedures robs me of another year of life."
I smiled. "It's not as bad as that, O Shaykh. Let them discover the cause of your ailment and
cure it, and then soon you will be as strong as ever."
Papa waved a hand impatiently, indicating that he didn't want to talk about it anymore.
"What are these other worries you will inflict on me?"
I had to approach both of them correctly. They were very sensitive matters. "The first
concerns my servant, Kmuzu," I said. "Even as I rescued you from the fire, Kmuzu rescued
me. I promised him that I would ask you to reward him."
"Why, of course, my son. He surely has earned a good reward."
"I thought you might give him his freedom."
Papa looked at me in silence, his expression empty. "No," he said slowly, "it is not yet time. I
will consider the circumstances, and decide on some other appropriate compensation."
"But—" He stopped me with a single gesture. Even weakened as he was, the force of his
personality would not permit me to press him further when he'd already made up his mind.
"Yes, O Shaykh," I said humbly. "The sec-ond matter concerns the widow and children of Jirji
Shaknahyi, the police officer who was my partner. They are in desperate financial straits,
and I wish to do more than merely offer them cash. I seek your permission to move them into
our house, perhaps for only a little while." Papa's expression told me that he did not want to
talk any longer. "You are my darling," he said weakly. "Your decisions are my decisions. It is
good."
I bowed to him. "I will leave you to rest now. May Allah grant you peace and well-being." "I
will miss your presence, O my son." I got up from my chair and glanced into the other room.
Youssef and Tariq appeared to be engrossed in their card game, but I was sure they'd
noted every word that had passed between Papa and me. As I headed for the door,
Friedlander Bey began to snore. I tried to make no noise as I left the suite.
I went down in the elevator to my room, and climbed back into bed. I was glad to see that the
liver lunch had been taken away. I'd just turned on the holoset again when Dr. Yeniknani
came in to visit me. Dr. Yeniknani had assisted the neurosurgeon who'd amped my skull. He
was a dark, fierce-looking Turk who was actually a student of Sufi mysticism. I'd gotten to
know him pretty well dur-ing my last stay here, and I was glad to see him again. I looked up
at the holoset and said "Off."
"How are you feeling, Mr. Audran?" said Dr. Yeniknani. He came up next to my bed and
smiled down at me. His strong teeth looked very white against his swarthy skin and his big,
black mustache. "May I sit down?"
"Please, make yourself comfortable," I said. "So, are you here to tell me that the fire baked
my brain, or is this just a friendly call?"
"Your reputation suggests that you don't have much brain left to bake," he said. "No, I just
wanted to see how you were feeling, and if there's anything I can do for you."
"I'm grateful. No, I don't think I need anything. I'd just like to get out of here already."
"Everyone says that. You'd think we tortured people in here."
"I've had nicer holidays."
"I have an offer for you, Mr. Audran," said Dr. Yeniknani. "How would you like to hold off
some of the
effects of the aging process? Prevent the degeneration of your mind, the slow deterioration
of your memory?"
"Uh oh," I said. "There's some kind of horrible catch coming, I can tell."
"No catch. Dr. Lisan is experimenting with a tech-nique that promises to do everything I just
mentioned. Imagine never having to worry about your mental facul-ties wearing out as you
get older. Your thought processes will be as sharp and quick when you're two hundred as
they are today."
"Sounds great, Dr. Yeniknani. But you're not talking about vitamin supplements here, are
you?"
He gave me a rueful grin. "Well, no, not exactly. Dr. Lisan is working with plexiform cortical
augmentation. He's wrapping the cerebral cortex of the brain in a mesh of microscopic wire
reticulations. The mesh is made of incredibly fine gold filaments to which are bonded the
same organic nemes that link your corymbic implant to your central nervous system."
"Uh huh." It sounded like mad scientist stuff to me.
"The organic strands pass your brain's electrical im-pulses from your cerebral cortex to the
gold mesh, and back in the opposite direction. The mesh serves as an artificial storage
mechanism. Our early results show that it can triple or quadruple the number of neuronal
connec-tions in your brain."
"Like adding extra memory to a computer," I said.
"That's too easy an analogy," said Dr. Yeniknani. I could tell that he was getting excited,
explaining his re-search to me. "The nature of memory is holographic, you know, so we're
not just offering you a vast number of empty slots in which to file thoughts and recollections. It
, goes beyond that—we're supplying you with a better re-dundancy system. Your brain
already stores each memory in many locations, but as brain cells wear out and die, some of
these memories and learned activities disappear. With cortical augmentation, however,
there is a capability for multiply storing information on a level many times higher than normal.
Your mind will be safe, protected against gradual failure, except of course in the case of
traumatic injury."
"All I have to do," I said dubiously, "is let you and Dr. Lisan plop my brain into a string bag,
like a cabbage head at the market."
"That's all. You'll never feel a thing." Dr. Yeniknani grinned. "And I think I can promise, in
addition, that the augmentation will speed up the processing in your brain. You'll have the
reflexes of a superman. You'll—"
"How many people have you done this to, and how do they feel about it?"
He studied his long, tapered fingers. "We haven't ac-tually performed the operation on a
human subject," he said. "But our work with laboratory rats shows a lot of promise."
I felt relieved. "I really thought you were trying to sell me on this," I said.
"Just keep it in mind, Mr. Audran," he said. "In a couple of years we'll be looking for some
brave volunteers to help us push back the frontiers of medicine."
I reached up and tapped my two corymbic implants. "Not me. I've already done my part."
Dr. Yeniknani shrugged. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at me thoughtfully. "I
understand that you saved the life of your patron," he said. "I once told you that death is
desirable as our passage to paradise, and that you should not fear it. It is also true that life is
even more desirable as our means of reconciliation with Allah, if we choose to follow the
Straight Path. You are a courageous man."
"I don't think I really did anything brave," I said. "I wasn't really thinking about that at the time."
"You do not strictly follow the commands of the Mes-senger of God," said Dr. Yeniknani, "but
you are~a wor-shipful man in your own way. Two hundred years ago, a : an said that the
religions of the world are like a lantern with many different colored glass panels, but that God
was the single flame within." He shook my hand and stood up. "With your permission."
It seemed that every time I spoke with Dr. Yeniknani, he gave me some Sufi wisdom to think
about. "Peace be upon you," I said.
"And upon you be peace," he said. Then he turned and left my room. I ate supper later, a
kind of baked lamb, chick-pea, and bean casserole with onions and tomatoes, which would
have been pretty good if only someone would tell the kitchen staff about the existence of salt
and maybe a little lemon juice. Then I was bored all over again, and I turned on the holoset,
turned it off, stared at the walls, and turned it on again. Finally, to my great relief, the
tele-phone beside my bed warbled. I answered it and said, "Praise Allah."
I heard Morgan's voice on the other end. I didn't have an English-language daddy with me,
and Morgan can't even find the bathroom in Arabic, so the only words I understood were
"Jawarski" and "Abu Adil." I told him I'd talk to him when I got out of the hospital; I knew he
didn't understand any more of what I said than I'd under-stood of him, so I hung up.
I lay back on my pillow and stared up at the ceiling. I wasn't really surprised to learn there
might be a connec-tion between Abu Adil and the crazy American killer. The way things
were starting to shape up, I wouldn't be sur-prised to hear that Jawarski was really my own
long-lost brother.
I spent almost a week in the hospital. I watched the holoset and got a lot of reading done,
and despite my wishes a few people came to see me—Lily, the sexchange who had a crush
on me, Chiri, Yasmin. There were two surprises: the first was a basket of fruit from Umar
Abdul-Qawy; the second was a visit from six total strangers, people who lived in the
Budayeen and the neighborhood around the copshop. Among them I recog-nized the young
woman with the baby to whom I'd given some money, that day Shaknahyi and I had been
sent to look for On Cheung.
She seemed just as shy and embarrassed as she had when she'd approached me in the
street. "O Shaykh," she said in a trembling voice, setting a cloth-covered basket on my tray
table, "we all beseech Allah for your recov-ery."
"Must be working," I said, smiling, "because the doc-tor says I'll be out of here today."
"Praise God," said the woman. She turned to the oth-ers who'd come with her. "These
people are the parents of children, the children who call to you in the streets and at the
police station house. They are grateful for your generosity."
These men and women lived in the kind of poverty I'd known most of my life. The odd thing
was that they didn't show any petulance toward me. It may seem un-grateful, but sometimes
you resent your benefactors. When I was young, I'd learned how humiliating it can be to take
charity, especially when you're so desperate that you can't afford the luxury of pride.
It all depends on the attitude of the givers. I'll never forget how much I hated Christmas as a
kid in Algiers.
Christians in the neighborhood used to put together bas-kets of food for my mother, my
baby brother, and me. Then they'd come by our shabby apartment and stand around
beaming at us, proud of their good deeds. They'd look from my mother to Hussain to me,
waiting until we'd acted appropriately grateful. How many times I wished that we weren't so
hungry, that we could just throw those goddamn canned goods back in their faces!
I was afraid these parents might feel the same way about me. I wanted them to know that
they didn't have to go through any forelock-tugging acts of appreciation for my benefit.
"I'm glad to help, my friends," I said. "But, really, I got my own selfish motives. In the noble
Qur'Sn it says, 'That which you spend for good must go to parents and near kindred and
orphans and the needy and the way-farer. And whatever good ye do, lo! Allah is aware of it.'
So maybe if I kick a few kiam to a worthy cause, it'll make up for the night I stayed up
partying with the blond twins from Hamburg."
I saw a couple of my visitors smile. That let me relax a little. "Even so," said the young
mother, "we thank you."
"Less than a year ago, I wasn't doing so well myself. Sometimes I was eating only every
other day. There were times when I didn't have a home to go to, and I slept in parks and
abandoned buildings. I been lucky since, and I'm just returning a favor. I remember how
much kind-ness everyone showed me when I was broke." Actually, practically none of that
was true, but it sure was gracious as all hell.
"We'll leave you now, O Shaykh," said the woman. "You probably need your rest. We just
wanted to let you know, if there's anything we can do for you, it would give us much
happiness."
I studied her closely, wondering if she meant what she said. "As it happens, I'm looking for
two guys," I said. "On Cheung the baby seller, and this killer, Paul Jawarski. If anyone's got
any information, I'd be very grateful."
I saw them exchange uneasy glances. No one said anything. It was just as I expected. "Allah
grant you peace and well-being, Shaykh Marid al-Amin," murmured the woman, backing
toward the door.
I'd earned an epithet! She'd called me Marid the
Trustworthy. "Allah yisallimak," I replied. I was glad when they left.
About an hour later, a nurse came in and told me that my doctor had signed my release from
the hospital. That was fine with me. I called Kmuzu, and he brought me some clean clothes.
My skin was still very tender and it hurt to get dressed, but I was just glad to be going home.
"The American, Morgan, wishes to see you, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "He says he has
something to tell you."
"Sounds like good news," I said. I got into the electric sedan, and Kmuzu closed the
passenger door. Then he went around and got in behind the steering wheel.
"You also have some business matters to take care of. There is a considerable amount of
money on your desk."
"Uh yeah, I guess so." There should be two fat pay envelopes from Friedlander Bey, plus my
share of the take from Chiri's.
Kmuzu let his glance slide over to me. "Do you have any plans for that money, yaa Sidi?" he
asked.
I smiled at him. "What, you got a horse you want me to back?"
Kmuzu frowned. No sense of humor, I recalled. "Your wealth has grown large. With the
money that came while you were in the hospital, you have more than a hundred thousand
kiam, yaa Sidi. Much good could be done with that great a sum."
"Didn't know you were keeping such close tabs on my bank balance, Kmuzu." He was such
a friend some-times, I tended to forget that he was really only a spy. "I had some ideas
about putting the money to good use. A free clinic in the Budayeen, maybe, or a soup
kitchen."
I'd really startled him. "That's wonderful and unex-pected!" he said. "I heartily approve."
"I'm so glad," I said sourly. I really had been thinking along those lines, but I didn't know how
to begin. "How'd you like to study the feasibility? All my time is taken up with this Abu
Adil-Jawarski thing."
"I would be more than happy. I don't think you have enough to fund a clinic, yaa Sidi, but
providing hot meals to the poor, that is a worthy gesture."
"I hope it's more than just a gesture. Let me know when you have some plans and figures for
me to look at."
The nice part of all this was that it would keep Kmuzu busy and out of my hair for a while.
When I went into the house, Youssef grinned and gave me a bow. "Welcome home, O
Shaykh!" he said. He insisted on wrestling my suitcase away from Kmuzu. The two of them
followed me down the corridor.
"Your apartment is still being rebuilt, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "I've made us comfortable in a
suite in the east wing. On the first floor, away from your mother and Umm Saad."
"Thank you, Kmuzu." I was already thinking about the work I had to do. I couldn't take any
more time off to recuperate. "Is Morgan here now, or do I have to call him?"
"He's in the antechamber of the office," said Youssef. "Is that all right?"
"Fine. Youssef, why don't you give that suitcase back to Kmuzu. He can carry it to our
temporary apartment. I want you to let me into Friedlander Bey's inner office. You don't think
he'd mind if I used it while he's in the hospital, do you?"
Youssef thought about that for a moment. "No," he said slowly, "I don't see any problem."
I smiled. "Good. I'm gonna have to take care of his business until he's healthy again."
"Then I'll leave you, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "May I begin working on our charity project?"
"As soon as possible," I said. "Go in safety."
"God be with you," said Kmuzu. He turned toward the servants' wing. I went on with Youssef
to Papa's pri-vate office.
Youssef paused at the threshold. "Shall I send the American in?" he asked.
"No," I said, "let him wait a couple of minutes. I need my English-language add-on, or I won't
understand a word he says. Would you mind fetching it?" I told him where to find it. "Then
when you come back, you can show Morgan in."
"Of course, O Shaykh." Youssef hurried away to do my bidding.
I felt an unpleasant thrill when I sat in Friedlander Bey's chair, as if I'd occupied a place of
unholy strength. I didn't like the feeling at all. For one thing, I had no desire to step into the
role of Junior Crime Lord, or even the more legitimate office of International Power Broker. I
was at Papa's feet now; but if, Allah forbid, something terminal were to happen to him, I
wouldn't hang around to be anointed as his successor. I had other plans for my future.
I glanced through the papers on Papa's desk for a few minutes, finding nothing racy or
incriminating. I was about to start rummaging through the drawers when Youssef returned.
"I've brought the entire rack, yaa Sidi," he said.
"Thank you, Youssef. Please show Morgan in now."
"Yes, O Shaykh." I was getting to like all this subservi-ence, but that was a bad sign.
I chipped in the English daddy just as the big, blond American came in. "Where y'at, man?"
he said, grinning. "I never been here before. You got a nice place."
"Friedlander Bey's got a nice place," I said, indicating that Morgan should make himself
comfortable. "I'm just his errand boy."
"Whatever you say. Now, you want to hear what I got?"
I leaned back in the chair. "Where's Jawarski?" I said.
Morgan's grin disappeared. "Still don't know, man. I got the word out to everybody, but I
haven't heard a clue. I don't think he's left the city. He's here somewhere, but he's done a
damn good job of evaporating."
"Yeah, you right. So what's the good news?"
He rubbed his stubbly chin. "I know somebody who knows somebody who works for some
business front that's owned by Reda Abu Adil. It's a shady package delivery service.
Anyway, this guy my friend knows says he heard somebody else say that this Paul Jawarski
wanted his money. Seems like your friend Abu Adil arranged to make it easy for Jawarski to
blast his way out of the pokey."
"A couple of guards died on account of it, but I don't suppose that bothers Abu Adil none."
"I suppose not. So Abu Adil hired Jawarski through this delivery company to come to the
city. I don't know what Abu Adil wanted, but you know what Jawarski's specialty is. This
friend of mine calls it the Jawarski Finish-ing School."
"And now Abu Adil is making sure Jawarski stays unstumbled on, right?"
"The way I figure it."
I closed my eyes and thought about it. It made perfect sense. I didn't have hard evidence that
Abu Adil had hired Jawarski to kill Shaknahyi, but in my heart I knew it was true. I also knew
Jawarski had killed Blanca and the others in Shaknahyi's notebook. And because
Lieutenant Hajjar was two-timing both Friedlander Bey and the halls of justice, I was pretty
confident that the police were never going to dig Jawarski up. Even if they did, Jawarski
would never be prosecuted.
I opened my eyes and stared at Morgan. "Just keep looking, buddy," I said, "because I don't
think anybody else is."
"Money?"
I blinked at him. "What?"
"You got any money for me?"
I stood up angrily. "No, I ain't got money for you! I told you I'd pay you another five hundred
when you found Jawarski. That's the deal."
Morgan stood up. "All right, man, just take it easy, okay?"
I was embarrassed by my outburst. "I'm sorry, Mor-gan," I said. "I'm not mad at you. This
whole business is making me crazy."
"Uh yeah. I know you were good friends with Shaknahyi. All right, I'll keep at it."
"Thanks, Morgan." I followed him out of the office and showed him to the front door. "We're
not gonna let them get away with it."
"Crime don't pay, right, man?" Morgan grinned and slapped my burned shoulder. The pain
made me wince.
"Yeah, you right." I walked with him down the curv-ing gravel driveway. I wanted to get away
from the house, and if I left right now, I could escape without Kmuzu tagging along. "Like a
ride to the Budayeen?" I asked.
"No, that's all right. I got some other stuff to do, man. See you later."
I turned back toward the house and got the car out of the garage. I thought I'd drop in on my
club and see if it was still in one piece.
The day shift was still on, and there were only five or six customers. Indihar frowned and
looked away when I caught her eye. I decided to sit at a table, rather than at my usual place
at the bar. Pualani came up to say hello. "Want a White Death?" she asked.
"White Death? What's that?"
She shrugged her slender shoulders. "Oh, that's what Chiri calls that awful gin and bingara
thing you drink." She grimaced.
"Yeah, bring me a White Death." It wasn't a bad
name.
Brandi was on stage, dancing to the Sikh propaganda music that had suddenly become
wildly popular. I hated it a lot. I didn't want to listen to political rantings, even if it had a great
beat and a catchy two-bar figure.
"Here you go, boss," said Pualani, dropping a cocktail napkin in front of me and pinning it in
place with a highball glass. "Mind if I sit down?"
"Huh? Oh, sure."
"Want to ask you about something. I'm thinkin' of, you know, havin' my brain wired so I can
use moddies?" She cocked her head to the side and peered at me, as if I might not
comprehend what she was telling me. She didn't say anything more.
"Yeah," I said at last. You had to respond like that with Pualani or you could spend the rest of
your life trapped in the same conversation.
"Well, everybody says you know more'n anybody about it. I was wonderin' if you could, like,
recommend somebody?"
"A surgeon?"
"Uhhuh."
"Well, there's plenty of doctors around who'll do it for you. Most of 'em are pretty reliable."
Pualani gave me a pretty frown. "Well, I was won-derin' if I could go to your doctor and use
your name."
"Dr. Lisan doesn't have a private practice. But his assistant, Dr. Yenjknani, is a good man."
Pualani squinted at me. "Would you write his name down for me?"
"Sure." I scribbled the name and commcode on the cocktail napkin.
"And also," she said, "does he do tits?"
"I don't think so, honey." Now Pualani had already
spent a small fortune modifying her body. She had a cute ass that had been rounded with
silicone, and cheekbones accentuated with silicone, and her chin and nose re-shaped, and
she'd already had breast implants. She had a devastating figure, and I thought it was a
mistake to blow up her bust any more; but I'd learned a long time ago that you can't reason
with dancers when it comes to breast size.
"Oh, okay," she said, obviously disappointed. I took a sip of my White Death. Pualani
snowed no sign of going away. I waited for her to continue. "You know Indihar?" she said.
"Sure."
"Well, she's havin' a lot of trouble. She's really broke."
"I tried giving her a loan, but she wouldn't take it."
Pualani shook her head. "No, she won't take a loan. But maybe you could help her out some
other way." Then she got up and wandered toward the front of the club, and sat down next to
a couple of Oriental men wearing sailor's caps.
Sometimes I just wished real life would leave me alone. I gulped a little more of my drink,
then stood up and went to the bar. Indihar noticed me and came over. "Get you something,
Marid?" she asked.
"Jirji's pension ain't gonna help you very much, right?"
She gave me an annoyed look and turned away. She headed for the other end of the bar.
"Don't want your money," she said.
I followed her. "I'm not offering money. How would you like a low-hassle job where you can
live free and watch your kids all day? You wouldn't have to pay a baby-sitter."
She turned around. "What's this all about?" Her ex-pression was mistrustful.
I smiled. "I mean bringing Little Jirji, Zahra, and Hakim and moving into one of the empty
apartments in Papa's house. Save you a lot of money every month, In-dihar."
She considered that. "Maybe. Why would you want me in Papa's house?"
I had to come up with some phony but real-sounding
reason. "It's my mother. I need someone to keep an eye on her. I'd be willing to pay you
whatever you wanted."
Indihar patted the bar with one hand. "Already got a job, remember?"
"Hey," I said, "if that's the problem, you're fired."
Her face lost its color. "The hell you talking about?"
"Think about it, Indihar. I'm offering you a nice home, free rent and meals, plus good money
every week for a part-time job making sure my mom doesn't do any-thing crazy. Your kids'll
be taken care of and you won't have to come into this bar every day. You won't have to take
your clothes off and dance, and you won't have to deal with the drunk jerks and the lazy-ass
girls like Brandi."
She raised her eyebrows. "I'll let you know, Marid," she said. "Soon as I figure out what kind
of hustle you're trying to pull. Sounds too good to be straight, sweetheart. I mean, you're not
wearing a Santa Glaus moddy or noth-ing."
"Yeah, you think about it. Talk it over with Chiri. You trust her. See what she thinks."
Indihar nodded. She was still watching me uncer-tainly. "Even if I say yes," she said, "I'm not
gonna fuck you."
I sighed. "Yeah, you right." I went back to my table. A minute after I sat down again, Fuad
il-Manhous let himself drop into the other chair. "I woke up the other day," he said in his
high-pitched, nasal voice, "and my mama says to me, 'Fuad, we don't have no money, go
out and take one of the chickens and sell it.'"
He was starting one of his dumb fables. He was so desperate for attention that he'd make
himself look like a total fool just to make me laugh. The sad thing was that even his most
fantastic stories were based on Fuad's actual fuck-ups.
He looked at me closely, to make sure I understood him so far. "So I did. I went out to my
mama's chicken coop and I chased those chickens around and around till I caught one. Then
I carried it down the hill and up the hill and over the bridge and through the streets till I came
to the Souk of the Poultry Dressers. Well, I never took a chicken to market before, so I didn't
know what to do. I stood there in the middle of the square all day, until I saw the merchants
locking their money up in boxes and load-ing their leftover stuff onto their carts. I'd already
heard the sunset call to prayer, so I knew I didn't have much time.
"I took my chicken to one of the men and told him I
wanted to sell it, and he looked at it and shook his head. 4
'This chicken has lost all it's teeth," he says.       f
"So I looked at it, and by Allah, he was right. That
chicken didn't have a tooth in its head. So I says, 'What
will you give me for it?' And the man gave me a handful of
copper fiqs. j
"Then I walked home with one hand in my pocket and my other hand holding the copper fiqs.
Just when I was crossing the bridge over the drainage canal, there was this fierce swarm of
gnats. I started waving my hands and swatting them, and then I ran the rest of the way across
: the bridge. When I got to the other side, I looked and I saw that I didn't have the money
anymore. I'd dropped all the coins into the canal."
Fuad coughed quietly. "Can I have a glass of beer, I
Marid?" he asked. "I'm getting real thirsty."          I
I signaled to Indihar to draw one. "You paying for this, f Fuad?" I said. His long face fell
further. He looked like a puppy about to get a beating. "Just kidding," I said. "The beer's on
the house. I want to hear how this story comes out."
Indihar set a mug in front of him, then stood around to hear the rest of the story. "Bismillah,"
murmured Fuad, and he took a long gulp. Then he set the beer down, gave me a quick,
thankful grimace, and started again. "Anyway," he said, "when I got home, my mama was
real mad. I didn't have no chicken and I didn't have no money. 'Next time,' she says, 'put it in
your pocket.'
" 'Ah,' I go, 'I should have thought of that.' So the next morning, my mama wakes me up and
tells me to take another chicken to the souk. Well, I got dressed and went out and chased
them around some more and caught one and carried it down the hill and up the hill and
across the bridge and through the streets to the souk. And this time I didn't stand in the hot
sun all morning and all afternoon. I went right up to the merchant and showed him the
sec-ond chicken.
" 'This one looks as bad as the one you brought yesterday,' he says. 'And besides, I'll have
to provide space far ft here in my stall all day. But I'll tell you what IH do. H give you a big jug
of honey in trade. It's very fine honey.*"
"Well, it was a good trade because my mama had four other chickens, but she didn't have
no honey. So I took the jug of honey from him and started home. I'd just crossed the bridge
when I remembered what my mama told me. I opened the jug and poured the honey in my
pocket. By the time I climbed the last hill, it was all gone.
"So my mama was real mad again. 'Next time,' she says, 'balance it on your head:'
" 'Ah,' I go, 'I should have thought of that.' On the third morning, I got up and caught another
chicken, and carried it to the souk and brought it to the merchant.
" 'Are all your chickens in such bad shape?' he says. 'Well, in the name of Allah, I will give
you my supper for this bird.' And the merchant gave me a mess of curds and whey.
"Well, I remembered what my mama told me, and I balanced it on my head. I went through
the streets and across the bridge and down the hill and up the hill. When I got home, my
mama asked me what I got for the chicken. 'Enough curds and whey for our evening meal,' I
go.
" Then where is it?' she says.
" 'On my head,' I go. She took one look and dragged me to the washstand. She poured a
whole pitcher of cold water over my head and scrubbed my hair with a stiff brush. All the time
she was shouting and blaming me for losing the curds and whey.
" 'Next time, carry it carefully in your hands,' she says.
" 'Ah,' I go, T should have thought of that.' So the next morning, very early before the sun
came up, I went out to the chicken coop and chose the nicest, fattest chicken that was left. I
left the house before my mama woke up, and I carried the chicken down the hill and through
the streets to the Souk of the Poultry Dressers.
" 'Good morning, my friend,' says the merchant. 'I see you have another aged, toothless
chicken.'
" This is a very nice chicken,' I go, 'and I want what it's worth and nothing less.'
"The merchant looked at the chicken closely and mumbled to himself. 'You know,' he says at
last, 'these feathers are stuck on very tight.'
" 'Isn't that how they're supposed to be?' I go.
"He pointed to a row of dead chickens with their heads cut off. 'See any feathers on these?'
" 'No,' I go.
" 'Ever eat a roast chicken with feathers?'
" 'No,' I go.
" Then I'm sorry. It will cost me much time and labor to unstick all these feathers. I can only
offer you this big fierce tomcat.'
"I thought that was a good trade, because the tomcat would catch the mice and rats that
crept into the coop and stole the chicken feed. I remembered what my mama had told me,
and I tried to carry the tomcat carefully in my hands. Just after I went down the hill and before
I went up the hill, the tomcat snarled and spit and squirmed and scratched until I couldn't hold
him any longer. He jumped out of my hands and ran away.
"I knew my mama was gonna be mad again. 'Next time,' she says, 'tie him with a string and
pull him behind you.'
" 'Ah,' I go, 'I should have thought of that.' Now, there's only two chickens left, so it took me
longer to catch one the next morning, even though I didn't even care which one it was. When I
got to the souk, the merchant was very glad to see me.
" 'Praise Allah that we are both well this morning,' he says, smiling at me. 'I see you have a
chicken.'
" 'Yeah, you right,' I go. I laid the chicken on the warped board he used for a counter.
"The merchant picked up the chicken and weighed it in his hands, and thumped it with his
finger like you'd thump a melon. 'This chicken doesn't lay eggs, does it?' he asks.
" 'Sure, it lays eggs! It's the best egg-laying hen my mama ever had.'
"The man shook his head and frowned. 'You see,' he says, 'that's a problem. Every egg this
chicken lays, that's less meat on its bones. This mightVe been a nice heavy chicken if it
hadn't laid no eggs. It's a good thing you brought it to me now, before it shrunk away to
nothing.' " 'All the eggs ought to be worth something,' I go.
" 'I don't see no eggs. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll trade you this killed, cleaned chicken ready to
eat for your egg-laying chicken. You won't find a better deal than that from any of these other
poultry dressers. Once they hear this chicken is such a good egg-layer, they won't give you
two copper fiqs.'
"I was just glad this man had taken a liking to me, because he was telling me things none of
the other mer-chants would've told me. So I traded my worthless egg-layer for his dressed
chicken, even though to me it looked a little scrawny and smelled funny and was kind of the
wrong color. I remembered what my mama told me, so I tied a string around it and pulled it
along behind me as I walked home.
"You should've heard my mama yelling at me when I got home! That poor plucked chicken
was completely ruined. 'By the life of my eyes!' she shouted. 'You are the biggest fool in all
the lands of Islam! Next time, carry it on your shoulder!'
" 'Ah,' I go, 'I should have thought of that.'
"So there was one chicken left, and I promised myself that I was gonna get the better of the
deal the next day. Again I didn't wait for my mama to wake me. I rose early, scrubbed my
face and hands, put on my best suit of clothes, and went out to the coop. It took me an hour
to catch that last chicken, which had always been my mama's favorite. It's name was Mouna.
Finally I got my hands on its thrashing, flapping body. I carried it out of the chicken coop,
down the hill, up the hill, across the bridge, through the streets to the souk.
"But this morning the poultry dresser was not in his stall. I stood there for several minutes,
wondering where my friend could be. Finally, a girl came up to me. She was dressed as a
modest Muslim woman should be dressed, and I couldn't see her face because of the veil;
but when she spoke, I knew from her voice that she probably was the most beautiful girl I'd
ever met."
"You can get yourself in a lot of trouble that way," I told Fuad. "I've made the mistake of
falling in love over the telephone. More than once."
He frowned at the interruption and went on. "She was probably the most beautiful girl I'd ever
met. Any-
way, she says, 'Are you the gentleman who has been trad-ing his chickens with my father
every morning?'
"I go, 'I'm not sure. I don't know who your father is. Is this his poultry stall?' She says it is. I go,
Then I'm that gentleman, and I have our last chicken right here. Where's your father this
morning?'
"Big bright tears collect in the corners of her eyes. She looks up at me with a pitiful
expression on her face, at least the part of it I can see. 'My father is desperately ill,' she says.
'The doctor doesn't expect him to live through the day.'
"Well, I was shocked by the news. 'May Allah have mercy on your father, and grant him
health. If he dies, I'll have to sell my chicken to someone else today."
"The girl didn't say anything for a moment. I don't think she really cared what happened to my
chicken. At last she said, 'My father sent me here this morning to find you. His conscience is
troubling him. He says that he traded unfairly with you, and he wishes to make up for it
before he is called to the bosom of Allah. He begs that you accept his donkey, the very
donkey that faithfully pulled my father's cart for ten years."
"I was a little suspicious about this offer. After all, I didn't know this girl as well as I knew her
father. 'Let me
fet this straight," I go. 'You want to trade your fine donkey for this chicken?'
" 'Yes,' she says.
" Til have to think it over. It's our last chicken, you know.' I thought about it and thought about
it, but I couldn't see anything that would make my mama mad. I was sure that finally she'd be
happy about one of my trades. 'All right,' I go, and I grabbed the donkey's rope halter. Take
the chicken, and tell your father that I will pray for his well-being. May he return tomorrow to
his stall in this souk, inshallah.'
" 'Inshallah,' the girl says, and she lowered her eyes to the ground. She went away with my
mama's last chicken, and I never saw her again. I think about her a lot, though, because
she's probably the only woman I'll ever love."
"Yeah, you right," I said, laughing. Fuad has this thing for mean hookers, the kind who carry
straight razors. You can find him every night over at the Red Light Lounge,
Fatima and Nassir's place. Nobody else I know even has the guts to go in there alone. Fuad
spends a lot of time in there, falling in love and getting ripped off.
"Anyway," he said, "I started leading the donkey home, when I remembered what my mama
told me. So I strained and pushed and lifted until I got that donkey to my shoulders. I got to
admit, I really didn't know why my mama wanted me to carry it that way, when it could walk
by itself just as well as I could. Still, I didn't want her mad at me anymore.
"I staggered toward home with the donkey across my back, and as I climbed down the hill, I
passed the beautiful walled palace of Shaykh Salman Mubarak. Now, you know Shaykh
Salman lived in that great mansion with his beau-tiful daughter, who was sixteen years old
and had never laughed from the time she'd been born. She had never even smiled. She
could talk all right, but she just didn't. Nobody, not even her wealthy father, had ever heard
her say a single word since the shaykh's wife, the girl's mother, had died when the girl was
three years old. The doctors said that if anyone could make her laugh, she'd be able to
speak again; or if anyone could make her speak, she'd then laugh as any normal person
might. Shaykh Salman had made the usual offers of riches and his daugh-ter's hand in
marriage, but suitor after suitor had tried and failed. The girl just sat glumly by the window,
watching the world pass by below.
"That's when I happened to walk by carrying the donkey. It must have looked pretty weird,
upside down on my back with its hooves waving in the air. I was told later that the shaykh's
beautiful daughter stared at me and the donkey for a few seconds, and then burst out into a
helpless fit of laughter. She recovered her speech then too, because she called loudly for
her father to come look. The shaykh was so grateful, he ran out into the road to meet me."
"Did he give you his daughter?" asked Indihar.
"You bet," said Fuad.
"How romantic," she said.
"And when I married her, I became the richest man in the city after the shaykh himself. And
my mother was quite pleased, and didn't mind that she had no chickens
left at all. She came to live with my wife and me in the shaykh's palace."
I sighed. "How much of that was true, Fuad?" I asked.
"Oh," he said, "I forgot a part. It turns out that the shaykh was really the poultry dresser, who
went to the souk every morning. I don't remember the reason why. And so the veiled girl was
just as beautiful as I thought she'd be."
Indihar' reached over and grabbed Fuad's half-full mug of beer. She raised it to her lips and
finished it off. "I thought the poultry dresser was dying," she said.
Fuad frowned in serious thought. "Yeah, well, he was, see, but when he heard his daughter
laughing and calling his name, he was miraculously healed."
"All praise to Allah, Fount of blessings," I said.
"I made up that part about Shaykh Salman and his beautiful daughter," said Fuad.
"Uh huh," said Indihar. "You and your mama really raise chickens?"
"Oh sure," he said eagerly, "but we don't got any right at the moment."
"Because you traded them?"
"I told my mama we should start again with younger chickens that still got their teeth."
"Thank God, I have to go mop up the spilled beer," said Indihar. She went back behind the
bar.
I drained the last of my White Death. After Fuad's story, I wanted three or four more drinks.
"Another beer?" I asked him.
He stood up. "Thanks, Marid, but I got to make some money. I want to buy a gold chain for
this girl."
"Why don't you give her one of the ones you try selling to the tourists?"
He looked horrified. "She'd scratch my eyes out!" he said. It sounded like he'd found another
hot-blooded sweetheart. "By the way, the Half-Hajj said I should show you this." He pulled
something out of his pocket and dropped it in front of me.
I picked it up. It was heavy, shiny, and made of steel, about six inches long. I'd never held
one in my hand before, but I knew what it was: an empty clip from an automatic pistol.
Not many people used the old projectile weapons anymore, but Paul Jawarski used a .45
caliber gun. That's what this came from.
"Where'd you get this, Fuad?" I asked casually, turn-ing the clip over in my hands.
"Oh, in the alley behind Gay Che's. Sometimes you can find money there, it falls out of their
pockets when they go out into the alley. I showed it to Saied first, and he said you'd like to
see it."
"Uh huh. I never heard of Gay Che's."
"You wouldn't like it. It's a tough place. I don't ever go in there. I just hang around in the alley."
"Sounds smart. Where is it?"
Fuad closed one eye and looked thoughtful. "Hamidiyya. On Aknouli Street."
Hamidiyya. Reda Abu Adil's little kingdom. "Now, why did Saied think I'd want to know about
this?" I asked.
Fuad shrugged. "He didn't tell me. Did you? Want to see it, I mean?"
"Yeah, thanks, Fuad. I owe you one."
"Really? Then maybe—"
"Another time, Fuad." I made a distracted, dismissing motion with my hand. I guess he took
the hint, because in a little while I noticed he was gone. I had a lot to think about: Was this a
clue? Was Paul Jawarski hiding out in one of Abu Adil's crummier enterprises? Or was it
some kind of a trap baited by Saied the Half-Hajj, who couldn't know that I no longer trusted
him?
I didn't have any choice. Trap or not, I was going to follow it up. But not just yet waited until
the next morning before I followed up on Fuad's information. I had the disconcerting feeling
that I was being set up, but at the same time I felt I might as well live dangerously. I sure
wasn't getting any closer to finding Jawarski using more conventional methods. Maybe
sticking my head on the block would tempt the executioner to make an appearance.
And then maybe the clip didn't belong to Jawarski, after all, and there wasn't anything at Gay
Che's but a lot of guys in exquisitely tailored caftans.
I thought about this as I walked back on the Street, past Frenchy Benoit's club to the
cemetery. I had a sense that events were moving quickly to their conclusion, al-though I
couldn't yet tell if that ending would be tragic or happy for me. I wished I had Shaknahyi to
advise me, and I wished I had made better use of his experience while he was still alive. It
was his grave I wanted to visit first.
There were several people at the entrance to the cemetery, sitting or squatting on the
uneven, broken slabs of concrete. They all jumped to their feet when they saw me, the old
men selling Coca-Cola and Sharab from bat-tered coolers on tricycles, the toothless old
women grin-ning and shoving bundles of dead, drooping flowers in my face, the children
crying "O Generous! O Compassion-ate!" and blocking my way. Sometimes I don't respond
well to organized, clamorous begging. I lose a lot of my | sympathy. I pushed through the
crowd, stopping only to " trade a couple of kiam for a wilted bouquet. Then I passed beneath
the brick arch, into the cemetery.
Shaknahyi's grave was across the way, near the wall on the western side. The dirt was still
bare, although a little grass had begun to poke through. I bent down and
placed the meager bouquet at the grave's head, which in accordance with Muslim tradition
pointed toward Mecca.
I stood up and looked back toward Sixteenth Street, over the many graves thrown
haphazardly together. The Muslim tombs were each marked with a crescent and star, but
there were also a few Christian crosses, a few Stars of David, and many unmarked at all.
Shaknahyi's final rest-ing place had only an upended flat rock with his name and the date of
his death scratched on. Someday soon that rock would topple over, and no doubt it would
be stolen by another mourner too poor to afford a proper marker. Shaknahyi's name would
be removed with a little sandpa-per or steel wool, and the rock would serve as someone
else's headstone until it was stolen again. I made a mental note to pay for a permanent
grave marker. He deserved that much, at least.
A young boy in a robe and turban tugged on my sleeve. "O Father of sadness," he said in a
high-pitched voice, "I can recite."
This was one of the young shaykhs who'd committed the entire Qur'an to memory. He
probably supported his family by reciting verses in the cemetery. "I will give you ten kiam to
pray for my friend," I said. He'd caught me in a weak moment.
"Ten kiam, effendi! Do you want me to recite the whole Book?"
I put my hand on his bony shoulder. "No. Just some-thing comforting about God and
Heaven."
The boy frowned. "There's much more about Hell and the eternal flames," he said.
"I know. I don't want to hear that."
"All right, effendi." And he began murmuring the ancient phrases in a singsong voice. I left
him beside Shaknahyi's grave and wandered back toward the en-trance.
My friend and occasional lover, Nikki, had been laid to rest in a low whitewashed tomb that
was already falling into disrepair. Nikki's family certainly could have afforded to bring her
body home for burial, but they'd preferred to leave her here. Nikki had been a sexchange,
and her fam-ily probably didn't want to be embarrassed. Anyway, this lonely tomb seemed to
be in keeping with Nikki's hard, loveless life. On my desk in the police station, I still kept a
small brass scarab that had belonged to her. A week didn't go by when I didn't think of Nikki.
I passed by the graves of Tamiko, Devi, and Selima, the Black Widow Sisters, and of
Hassan the Shiite, the son of a bitch who'd almost killed me. I found myself maun-dering
gloomily along the narrow brick paths, and I de-cided that wasn't how I wanted to spend the
rest of the afternoon. I shook off the growing depression and headed back toward the
Street. When I glanced over my shoul-der, the young shaykh was still standing beside
Shaknahyi's grave, reciting the holy words. I felt sure that he'd stay there ten kiams' worth,
even after I was gone.
I had to force my way through the mob of beggars again, but this time I threw a handful of
coins to them. When they scrambled for the money, it made it easier to escape. I undipped
my phone from my belt and spoke Saied the Half-Hajj's commcode. I waited a few rings,
and I was about to give up when he answered. "Marhaba, "he said.
"It's Marid. How you doin?"
"Aw right. What's happening?"
"Oh, nothing much. I got out of the hospital."
"Ah! Glad to hear it."
"Yeah, I get tired of that place. Anyway, you with Jacques and Mahmoud?"
"Uh yeah. We're all sitting in Courane's getting drunk. Why don't you come on by?"
"I think I will. I need you to do me a favor."
"Yeah?"
"Tell you about it later. See you in maybe half an hour. Ma' as-salaama."
"Allah yisallimak."
I clipped the phone back on my belt. I'd walked all the way back to Chiriga's, and suddenly I
had a terrific urge to go in and see if Indihar or any of the girls had a few sunnies or tri-phets
they could spare. It wasn't withdrawal I was feeling; it was a hunger that had been growing
for many days. It took a lot of willpower to fight off the crav-ing. It would have been so much
easier to admit my true nature and give in. I might have, except I knew that later I'd need my
brains unaddled.
I kept on walking until I got to Fifth Street, when I was stopped by one of the most unusual
sights I've ever seen. Laila, the old black hag who owned the modshop was standing in the
middle of the Street, screaming shrill curses at Safiyya the Lamb Lady, who was standing a
block away and yelling her head off too. They looked like two gunfighters from an American
holoshow, screeching and snarling and threatening each other. I saw some tour-ists coming
up the street; they stopped and watched the old women nervously, then backed away again
toward the eastern gate. I felt the same way. I didn't want to get in between those two
witches. You could almost see the green rays shooting out of their eyes.
I couldn't actually understand what they were saying. Their voices were strained and hoarse,
and they may not have been screaming in Arabic. I didn't know if the Lamb Lady'd had her
skull amped, but Laila never went any-where without a moddy and a handful of daddies. She
could have been ranting in ancient Etruscan for all I knew.
After a little while they both got tired of it. Safiyya left first, making an obscene gesture in
Laila's direction and heading back down the Street toward the Boulevard il-Jameel. Laila
stared after her, throwing a few final un-pleasantries her way. Then, muttering to herself, she
turned down Fourth Street. I followed her. I thought I
might find a useful moddy in her shop.
When I got there, Laila was behind her cash register, humming to herself and sorting a stack
of invoices.
When I came in, she looked up and smiled. "Marid," she said sadly, "do you know how
boring it is to be the wife of a country doctor?"
"To be honest, Laila, no, I don't." Evidently, she'd chipped in another moddy as soon as she
got back to her shop, and now it was as if she hadn't seen the Lamb Lady at all. "Well," she
said slyly, giving me a wicked smile, "if you did know, you wouldn't blame me at all if I
considered
taking a lover." "Madame Bovary?" I asked.
She just winked. The effect was moderately hideous. I began browsing in her dusty bins. I
didn't exactly
know what I was looking for. "Laila," I called over my shoulder, "do the letters A.L.M. mean
anything to you?"
"L'Association des Larves Maboules?" That meant the Association of Crazy Wimps. "Who
are they?" I asked. "You know. People like Fuad." "Never heard of it," I said. "I just made it
up, chari."
"Uh huh." I picked up a moddy package that caught my eye. It was an anthology of fictional
types, mostly Eur-Am defenders of the meek, although there was an ancient Chinese
poet-king, a Bantu demigod, and a Nordic trick-ster. The only name I recognized was Mike
Hammer. I still owned a Nero Wolfe moddy, although the companion hardware, Archie
Goodwin, had died horribly under the heel of Saied the Half-Hajj.
I decided to get the anthology. I figured it gave me a wide sampling of skills and
personalities. I took it over to Laila. "Just this one today," I said.
"There's a special on—"
"Wrap it, Laila." I handed her a ten-kiam bill. She took my money and looked hurt. I thought
about what I'd chip in to visit Gay Che's. I still had Rex, Saied's badass moddy. I decided I'd
wear that, and carry this new one in reserve.
"Your change, Marid."
I took my package, but let the old woman keep the change. "Buy yourself something pretty,
Laila," I told her.
She smiled again. "And you know, I expect Leon will bring me a romantic surprise this
evening."
"Yeah, you right." I left the shop feeling as creepy as I always did around her.
I took three steps toward the Street, and then I heard blaam! blaam! blaam! A flying chip of
concrete cut my face just under my right eye. I threw myself into the doorway of the gambling
den next to Laila's. Blaam! blaam! blaam! I heard bricks shatter and saw puffs of red dust
drift from the edge of the doorway. I pressed myself in as far as I could. Blaam! blaam! Two
more: Someone had just taken eight shots at me with a high-powered pistol.
Nobody came running. Nobody was curious enough to see if I was all right, or maybe
needed medical atten-tion. I waited, wondering how long before it was safe to stick my head
out again. Was Jawarski still hiding somewhere across the street, a fresh clip in his .45? Or
was this only a warning? Surely, if he truly wanted to kill me, he could have done a better job
of it.
I got tired of being scared after a few minutes and left the safety of the doorway. I have to
admit that I had a peculiar vulnerable feeling between my shoulder blades as I hurried down
to the corner. I decided that this had been Jawarski's way of sending me an invitation. I had
no intention of declining; I just wanted to be prepared.
Yet even so, I still had other business to finish before I could turn my full attention to the
American. I went to my car and threw the new moddy into the backseat, where I'd left my
briefcase. I drove slowly and calmly through the Rasmiyya neighborhood to Courane's.
When I got there, I parked the car in the narrow street and took Saied's moddy out of the
briefcase. I looked at it thought-fully for a moment and chipped it in, along with the dad-dies
that blocked pain and fatigue. Then I got out of the car and went into Courane's dim bar.
"Monsieur Audran!" said the expatriate, coming to-ward me with both hands outstretched.
"Your friends told me you'd be coming. It's good to see you again."
"Yeah," I said. I could see the Half-Hajj, Mahmoud, arid Jacques at a table near the back.
Courane followed me, speaking in a low voice. "Wasn't that just terrible about Officer
Shaknahyi?"
I turned to look at him. "That's what it was, Courane. Terrible."
"I was truly upset." He nodded to let me know how sincere he was.
"Vodka gimlet," I said. That made him go away.
I dragged over a chair and sat at the table with the others. I looked at them but didn't say
anything. The last time I'd been with this group, I hadn't been very popular. I wondered if
anything had changed.
Jacques was the Christian who was always patroniz-ing me about how he had more
European blood than I did. This afternoon he just closed one eye and nodded his head. "I
hear you pulled Papa out of a burning building."
Courane arrived with my drink. Instead of answer-ing, I lifted the glass and sipped.
"I was in a fire once," said the Half-Hajj. "Well, actually, I was in a building that burned down
about an hour after I left. I could've been killed."
Mahmoud, the male sexchange, snorted. "So, Marid," he said, "I'm impressed."
"Yeah," I said, "I really just wanted to impress you bastards." I squeezed the wedge of lime
into the gimlet. Vitamin C, you know.
"No, really," Mahmoud went on, "everybody's talk-ing about it. It was pretty gutsy."
Jacques shrugged. "Especially if you think that you could've ended up with all of Friedlander
Bey's light-speed clout for yourself. Just by letting the old fucker fry."
"Did you think about that?" asked Mahmoud. "While it was all happening, I mean?"
It was time to take a long swallow of vodka, because I was getting really mad. When I set my
glass down again, I looked from one to the other. "You know Indihar, right? Well, since Jirji's
been dead, she's having a tough time paying her bills. She won't take a loan from me or
Ghiri, and she can't make enough tending bar in the club."
Mahmoud's eyebrows went up. "She want to come work for me? She's got a nice ass. I
could get her good money."
I shook my head. "She's not interested in that," I said. "She wants me to find a new home for
one of her kids. She's got two boys and a girl. I told her she could spare one of the boys."
That shut 'em up for a little while. "Maybe," said Jacques at last. "I can ask around, anyway."
"Do it," I said. "Indihar said she might even be will-ing to part with the girl too. If they both go
together, and if the price is right."
"When do you need to know?" said Mahmoud.
"Soon as you can find out. Now, I got to go. Saied, you mind taking a ride with me?"
The Half-Hajj looked first at Mahmoud, then at Jacques, but neither of them had anything to
say. "Guess not," he said.
I took twenty kiam out of my pocket and dropped it on the table. "Drinks are on me," I said.
Mahmoud gave me a judicious look. "We been kind of hard on you lately," he said.
"I hadn't noticed."
"Well, we're glad things are straightened out be-tween us. No reason things can't be like
they were be-fore."
"Sure," I said, "right."
I gave Saied's shoulder a little shove, and we headed back out into the sunlight. I stopped
him before he got into the car. "I need you to tell me how to find Gay Che's," I said.
His face went suddenly pale. "Why the hell you want to go there?"
"I heard about it, that's all."
"Well, I don't want to go. I'm not even sure I can give you directions."
"Sure you can, pal," I said, my voice grim and threat-ening. "You know all about it."
Saied didn't like being pushed around. He stood up straight, trying to give himself a little
height advantage. "Think you can make me go with you?"
I just stared at him, my face empty of emotion. Then very slowly I raised my right hand up to
my lips. I opened my mouth and bit myself savagely. I ripped a small gobbet of flesh loose
from the inside of my wrist and spat it at the Half-Hajj. My own blood trickled down the
corners of my mouth. "Look, motherfucker," I growled hoarsely, "that's what I do to me. Wait
till you see what I do to you!"
Saied shuddered and backed away from me on the sidewalk. "You're crazy, Marid," he
said. "You gone fuckin' crazy."
"In the car."
He hesitated. "You're wearing Rex, ain't you? You shouldn't wear that moddy. I don't like
what it does to you."
I threw back my head and laughed. I was only behav-ing the way he acted when he wore the
same moddy. And he wore it often. I could understand why—I was begin-ning to like it a lot.
I waited until he slid into the passenger seat, then I went around and got behind the wheel.
"Which way?" I asked.
"South." His voice was tired and hopeless.
I drove for a while, letting him worry about how much I knew. "So," I said finally, "what kind of
place is
it?"
"Nothing much." The Half-Hajj was sullen. "A hang-out for this jackboot gang, the Jaish."
"Yeah?" From the name, I'd pictured the clientele of Gay Che's like that guy I'd seen in
Chiri's a few weeks before, the one in the vinyl pants with his hand chained behind his back.
"The Citizen's Army. They wear these gray uniforms and have parades and pass out a lot of
leaflets. I think they want to get rid of the foreigners in the city. Down with the heathen Franj.
You know that routine."
"Uh huh. I get the idea from il-Manhous that you spend some time there."
Saied didn't like this conversation at all. "Look, Marid," he began, but then he fell silent.
"Anyway, you gonna believe everything you hear from Fuad?"
I laughed. "What you think he told me?"
"I don't know." He slid farther away from me, up against the passenger door. I almost felt
sorry for him. He didn't speak again except to give me directions.
When we got there, I reached under my seat where my weapons were hidden. I had the
small seizure gun I'd gotten so long ago from Lieutenant Okking, and the static pistol
Shaknahyi'd given me. I looked at the guns thought-fully. "This a setup, Saied? You
supposed to bring me here so Abu Adil's thugs could ice me?"
The Half-Hajj looked frightened. "What's this all about, Marid?"
"Just tell me why the hell you told Fuad to show me that .45 caliber clip."
He sagged unhappily in his seat. "I went to Shaykh Reda because I was confused, Marid,
that's all. Maybe it's too late now, but I'm real sorry. I just didn't like standing around while you
got to be the big hero, when you got to be Friedlander Bey's favorite. I felt left out."
My lip curled. "You mean you set me up to be killed because you were fucking jealous?"
"I never meant for anything like that."
I took the empty clip from my pocket and held it in front of his eyes. "An hour ago, Jawarski
emptied another one of these at me, in broad daylight on Fourth Street."
Saied rubbed his eyes and muttered something, didn't think this would happen," he said
softly.
"What did you think would happen?"
"I thought Abu Adil would treat me the way Papa's treating you."
I stared at him in amazement. "You really hired your-self out to Abu Adil, didn't you? I thought
you just told him about my mother. But you're one of his tools, right?"
"I told you I was sorry," he said in an anguished voice. "I'll make it up to you."
"Goddamn right you will." I handed him the seizure gun. "Take this. We're going in there and
we're gonna find Jawarski."
The Half-Hajj took the weapon hesitantly. "I wish I had Rex," he said sadly.
"No, I don't trust you with Rex. I'm gonna keep wear-ing it." I got out of the car and waited for
Saied. "Put your gun away. Keep it out of sight unless you need it. Now, is there any kind of
password or anything?"
"No, you just got to remember nobody in there's very fond of foreigners."
"Uh huh. Come on, then." I led the way into the bar. It was crowded and noisy and all I saw
were men, most of them dressed in what I guessed was the gray uniform of this right-wing
Citizen's Army. It wasn't dimly lighted and there wasn't music playing: Gay Che's wasn't that
kind of bar. This was a meeting place for the kind of men who liked dressing up as brave
soldiers and marching through the streets and not actually having shots fired at them. What
these jokers reminded me of was Hitler's SS, whose main attributes had been perversion
and pointless brutality.
Saied and I pushed our way through the mob of men to the bar. "Yeah?" said the surly
bartender.
I had to shout to make myself heard. "Two beers," I said. This didn't look like a place to
order fancy drinks.
"Right."
"And we're looking for a guy."
The bartender glanced up from his tap. "Won't find him here."
"Oh yeah?" He set the beers in front of the Half-Hajj and me, and I paid. "An American,
might still be recover-ing—"
The bartender grabbed the ten-kiam bill I'd laid down. He didn't offer any change. "Look,
cap, I don't answer questions, I pour beer. And if some American came in here, these guys'd
probably tear him apart."
I took a gulp of the cold beer and looked around the room. Maybe Jawarski hadn't been in
this bar. Maybe he was hiding out upstairs in the building, or in a nearby building. "Okay," I
said, turning back to the bartender, "he ain't been in here. But you seen any Americans
around this neighborhood lately?"
"Didn't you hear me? No questions."
Time to bring out the hidden persuader. I took a hundred-kiam bill from my pocket and
waved it in the bartender's face. I didn't need to say a word.
He looked into my eyes. It was clear that he was torn by indecision. Finally he said, "Let me
have the money."
I gave him a tight smile. "Look at it a little longer. Maybe improve your memory."
"Well, stop flashing it around, cap. You'll get us both roughed up." I put the money on the bar
and covered it with my hand. I waited. The bartender went away for a moment. When he
came back, he slid a torn piece of cardboard toward me. I picked it up. There was an
address written on it. I showed the cardboard to Saied. "Know where this is?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said in an unhappy voice, "it's about two blocks from Abu Adil's place."
"Sounds right." I handed the hundred kiam to the bartender, who made it disappear. I took
out the static pistol and let him see it. "If you've fucked me over," I said, "I'm coming back
and using this on you. Understand?"
"He's there," said the bartender. "Just get out of here and don't come back."
I put the gun away and shoved my way toward the door. When we were on the sidewalk
again, I looked at the Half-Hajj. "See now?" I said. "That wasn't so bad."
He gave me a hopeless look. "You want me to go with you to find Jawarski, right?"
I shrugged. "No," I said, "I already paid somebody else to do that. I don't want to have to
come near Jawarski if I can help it."
Saied was furious. "You mean you put me through all that grief and dragged me into that
place for nothing?"
I opened the car door. "Hey, it wasn't for nothing," I said, smiling. "Allah probably agrees it
was good for your soul."
The westphalian sedan was headed north, away from Hamidiyya. I had my English daddy
chipped in and I was speaking on the phone to Mor-gan. "I found him," I said.
"Great, man." The American sounded disappointed. "That mean I don't get the rest of the
money?"
"Tell you what I'll do. I'll give you the other five hundred if you baby-sit Jawarski for a few
hours. You got a gun?"
"Yeah. You want me to use it?"
The idea was very tempting. "No. I just want you to keep an eye on him." I read off the
address on the piece of cardboard. "Don't let him go anywhere. Hold him till I get there."
"Sure, man," said Morgan, "but don't take all day. I'm not crazy about hangin' around all day
with a guy who's killed twenty-some people."
"I got faith in you. Talk to you later." I hung up the phone.
"What you gonna do?" asked Saied.
I didn't want to tell him, because despite his earnest confession and apology, I still didn't
trust him. "I'm taking you back to Courane's," I said. "Or you rather I drop you off somewhere
in the Budayeen?"
"Can't I go with you?"
I laughed coldly. "I'm gonna visit your favorite king-pin, Abu Adil. You still on good terms with
him?"
"I don't know," said the Half-Hajj nervously. "But maybe I ought to go back to Courane's. I
thought of some-thing I got to tell Jacques and Mahmoud."
"I'll bet."
"Besides, I don't need to run into that bastard Umar
ever again." Saied pronounced the name "Himmar," by changing the vowel just a little and
aspirating it. It was an Arabic pun. The word himmar means donkey, and Arabs consider the
donkey one of the filthiest animals on earth. This was a clever way of insulting Umar, and
when he was wearing Rex, the Half-Hajj may even have said it to Ab-dul-Qawy's face. That
may be one of the reasons Saied wasn't popular around Hamidiyya anymore.
He was quiet for a little while. "Marid," he said at last, "I meant what I said. I made a bad
mistake, turning my coat like that. But I never had no contract with Fried-lander Bey or
nothing. I didn't think I was hurting any-body."
"I almost died twice, pal. First the fire, then Jawar-ski."
I pulled the car to the curb outside Courane's. Saied was miserable. "What you want me to
say?" he pleaded.
"You got nothing to say. I'll see you you later."
He nodded and got out of the car. I watched him walk into Courane's bar, then I popped the
tough-guy moddy. I drove west and north, to Papa's house. Before I con-fronted Abu Adil, I
had two or three other things to take care of.
I found Kmuzu in our temporary apartment, working at my Chhindwara data deck. He looked
up when he heard me come into the room. "Ah, yaa Sidi!" he said, as pleased as I'd ever
seen him. "I have good news. It will cost less to organize charity food distribution than I
thought. I hope you'll forgive me for examining your fi-nancial situation, but I've learned that
you have more than twice what we need."
"That a hint, Kmuzu? I'm only going to open one soup kitchen, not two. You got an operating
budget worked out?"
"We can run the food center for a full week on the money you get from Chiriga's on a single
night."
"Great, glad to hear it. I was just wondering why you're so excited about this project. How
come it means so much to you?"
Kmuzu's expression turned solidly neutral. "I just feel responsible for your Christian moral
education," he said.
"I don't buy it," I said.
He looked away. "There is a long story, yaa Sidi, "he said. "I do not wish to tell it now."
"All right, Kmuzu. Another time."
He turned to me again. "I have information about the fire. I told you I'd found proof it was
deliberately set. That night in the corridor between your apartment and that of the master of
the house, I discovered rags that had been soaked in some flammable fluid." He opened a
desk drawer and took out some badly scorched cloth remnants. They'd been burned in the
fire, but hadn't been totally destroyed. I could still see a decorative pattern of eight-pointed
stars in pale pink and brown.
Kmuzu held up another cloth. "Today I found this. It's obviously the cloth from which those
rags were torn."
I examined the larger cloth, part of an old robe or sheet. There wasn't any doubt that it was
the same mate-rial. "Where'd you find this?" I asked.
Kmuzu put the rags back in the desk drawer. "In the room of young Saad ben Salah," he
said.
"What were you doing poking around in there?" I asked with some amusement.
Kmuzu shrugged. "Looking for evidence, yaa Sidi. And I believe I've found enough to be
certain of the arsonist's identity."
"The kid? Not Urnm Saad herself?"
"I'm sure she directed her son to set the fire."
I wouldn't put it past her, but it didn't quite fit. "Why would she do that, though? Her whole
scheme has been to get Friedlander Bey to admit that Saad is his grandson. She wants her
son to be heir to Papa's estate. Killing the old man off now would leave her out in the cold."
"Who can say what her reasoning was, yaa Sidi? Per-haps she gave up her plan, and now
she's seeking re-venge."
Jeez, in that case, who knew what she'd try next? "You're keeping an eye on her already,
aren't you?" I asked.
"Yes, yaa Sidi."
"Well, be extra watchful." I turned to go, then faced him once more. "Kmuzu," I said, "do the
letters A.L.M. mean anything to you?"
He gave it a moment's thought. "Only the African Liberation Movement," he said.
"Maybe," I said dubiously. "What about the Phoenix File?"
"Oh, yes, yaa Sidi, I heard about it when I worked in Shaykh Reda's house."
I'd run into so many dead ends that I'd almost given up hope. I'd begun to think the Phoenix
File was some-thing Jirji Shaknahyi had invented, and that the meaning of the words had
died with him. "Why did Abu Adil dis-cuss it with you?" I asked.
Kmuzu shook his head. "Abu Adil never discussed anything with me, yaa Sidi. I was only a
bodyguard. But bodyguards are often overlooked or forgotten. They be-come like the
furniture in a room. Several times I over-heard Shaykh Reda and Umar talk about whom they
wished to add to the Phoenix File."
"So what is the damn thing?" I demanded.
"A list," said Kmuzu. "A compilation of the names of everyone who works for Shaykh Reda
or Friedlander Bey, either directly or indirectly. And of anyone who owes either of them a
great favor."
"Like rosters," I said, puzzled. "But why should the file be so important? I'm sure the police
could put to-gether the same list anytime they wanted. Why did Jirji Shaknahyi risk his life
investigating it?"
"Each person on the list has a coded entry that de-scribes his physical condition, his
tissue-matching profile, and his record of organ transplants and other modifica-tions."
"So both Abu Adil and Papa keep up with their peo-ple's health. That's great. I didn't think
they'd bother with details like that."
Kmuzu frowned. "You don't understand, yaa Sidi. The file is not a list of who might need to
receive a trans-plant. It is a list of available donors."
"Available donors? But these people aren't dead, they're still—" My eyes opened wider and
I just stared at him.
Kmuzu's expression let me know that my horrified realization was correct. "Everyone on the
list is ranked," he said, "from the lowest underling to Umar and yourself. If a person on the
list is injured or becomes ill and needs an organ transplant, Abu Adil or Friedlander Bey
may choose to sacrifice someone with a lower rating. This is not always done, but the higher
one's rating, the more likely it is that a suitable donor will be chosen."
"May their houses be destroyed! The sons of thieves!" I said softly. This explained the
notations in Shaknahyi's notebook—the names on the left side were people who'd been
prematurely relaxed to provide spare parts for peo-ple on the right side. Blanca had been
too far down on the list for her own good; she'd been just another expendable slut.
"Perhaps everyone you know is listed in the Phoenix File," said Kmuzu. "You yourself, your
friends, your mother. My name is there as well."
I felt fury growing in me. "Where does he keep it, Kmu/u? I'm gonna shove this file down Abu
Adil's throat."
Kmuzu raised a hand. "Remember, yaa Sidi, that Shaykh Reda is not alone in this terrible
enterprise. He cooperates with our master. They share information, and they share the lives
of their associates. A heart from one.of Shaykh Reda's minions may be put in the chest of
Fried-lander Bey's lieutenant. The two men are great competi-tors, but in this they are
cordial partners."
"How long has this been going on?" I asked.
"For many years. The two shaykhs began it to make certain they themselves would never
die for lack of com-patible organs."
I slammed my fist on the desk. "That's how they've both lived to such doddering old age.
They're fucking fossils!"
"And they are insane, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.
"You didn't tell me where to find it. Where is the Phoenix File?"
Kmuzu shook his head. "I don't know. Shaykh Reda keeps it hidden."
Well, I thought, I'd planned to take a ride out to that neighborhood that afternoon anyway.
"Thanks, Kmuzu. You've been a lot of help."
"Yaa Sidi, you aren't going to confront Shaykh Reda with this, are you?" He looked very
troubled.
"No, of course not," I said. "I know better than to take on both of the old men together. You
just keep working on our soup kitchen. I think it's time the House of Friedlander Bey began
giving back something to the poor peo-ple."
"That is good."
I left Kmuzu working at the data deck. I went back out to the car, revising my schedule for the
day in light of the blockbuster that had just gone off at my feet. I drove to the Budayeen,
parked the car, and started up the Street to Chiri's.
My phone rang. "Marhaba," I said.
"It's me, man. Morgan." I was glad I was still wearing the English daddy. "Jawarski's here, all
right. He's holed up in a crummy apartment in a real slum. I'm hangin' out in the stairwell,
watchin' the door. You want me to drop in on the man?"
"No," I said, "just make sure he doesn't leave. I want
to know that he'll be there when I come by later. If he
tries to go somewhere, though, stop him. Use your gun
• and back him up into the apartment. Do whatever you got
to, but keep him under wraps."
"You got it, man. But don't take too long. This isn't as much fun as I thought it'd be."
I clipped the phone back on my belt and went into the club. Chiri's was pretty crowded for
late afternoon. A new black girl named Mouna was on stage. I recalled suddenly that Mouna
had been the name of the pet chicken in Fuad's long story. That meant he was probably
adoring this girl, and that meant she was probably trouble. I'd have to keep my eyes open.
The other girls were sitting with customers, and love was in bloom all along the bar. It was
fucking heart-warming. I went down to my usual place arid waited for Indihar to come over.
"White Death?" she asked.
"Not right now. You thought any about what we talked about?"
"About rne moving into Friedlander Bey's little cot-tage? If it wasn't for the kids, I wouldn't
give it a second thought. I don't want to owe him nothing. I don't want to be one of Papa's
little wenches."
I'd felt that way myself, not so long ago. and now that I'd learned the significance of the
Phoenix File, I knew she had even more reason to distrust Papa. "You're right about that,
Indihar," I said, "but I promise you that won't happen. Papa's not doing this for you; 7 am."
"Is there a difference?"
"Yes. A big one. Now, what's your answer?"
She sighed. "Okay, Marid, but I'm not going to be one of your wenches, either. You know
what I mean?"
"You're not going to fuck me. You already made that clear."
Indihar nodded. "Just so you understand. I'm mourn-ing my husband. I may go on mourning
him forever."
"Take as long as you need. You got a lot of life left to live, honey," I said. "Someday you'll
find someone else."
"I don't even want to think about it."
It was past time to change the subject. "You can start moving in any time you want, but finish
out the shift for me," I said. "This means I got to find a new daytime barmaid."
Indihar looked left and right, then leaned closer. "If I was you," she said in a low voice, "I'd
hire somebody from outside. I wouldn't trust any of these girls to run this place. They'd rob
you blind, especially that Brandi. And Pu-alani's not bright enough to put the napkin down,
then the drink."
"What do you think I should do?"
She chewed her lip for a moment. "I'd hire Dalia away from Frenchy Benoit. That's what I'd
do. Or Heidi from the Silver Palm."
"Maybe," I said. "Call me if you need anything." It was just something else I had to worry
about. Right now, though, my thoughts were centered mainly on the blighted neighborhood
on the western side of town. I walked back out into the late afternoon sun. It had begun to
rain, and there was a good, wet smell coming from the warm sidewalks.
A few minutes later, I was back in the modshop on Fourth Street. Twice in one day was
enough of Laila to last anybody a year. I overheard her discussing a module with a
customer. The man needed something to let him do armadontia. That's the science of
converting human teeth into high-tech weapons. Laila was still Emma: Madame Bovary,
Dentist of Tomorrow.
When the customer left—yes, Laila'd found just what he was looking for—I tried to tell her
what I wanted without getting into a conversation. "Got any Proxy Hell moddies?" I asked.
She'd already opened her mouth to greet me with some secondhand Flaubertian sentiment,
but I'd shocked her. "You don't want that, Marid," she said in her whiny voice.
"Not for me. It's for a friend."
"None of your friends do that, either."
I stopped myself before I grabbed her by the throat. "It's not for a friend, then. It's for a
goddamn enemy."
Laila smiled. "Then you want something really bad, right?"
"The worst," I said.
She bustled out from behind her counter and went to the locked door in the rear of the shop.
"I don't keep merchandise like that out," she explained as she dug in a pocket for her keys.
Actually, they were on a long, green plastic necklace around her neck. "I don't sell Proxy Hell
moddies to kids."
"Keys are around your neck."
"Oh, thanks, dear." She unlocked the door and turned to look at me. "Be right back." She
was gone a minute or two, and she returned with a small brown card-board box.
There were three moddies in the box, all plain, gray plastic, all without manufacturer's labels.
These were bootleg modules, dangerous to wear. Regular commercial moddies were
carefully recorded or programmed, and all extraneous signals were removed. You gambled
when you wore an underground moddy. Sometimes bootlegs were "rough," and when you
popped them out, you found they'd caused major brain damage.
Laila had stuck handwritten labels on the moddies in the box. "How about infectious
granuloma?" she asked.
I considered it for a moment, but decided that it was too much like what Abu Adil had been
wearing when I'd first met him. "No," I said.
"Okay," said Laila, pushing the moddies around with her long, crooked forefinger.
"Cholecystitis?"
"What's that?"
"Don't have any idea."
"What's the third one?"
Laila held it up and read the label. "D Syndrome."
I shivered. I'd heard about that. It's some kind of awful nerve degeneration, a disease
caused by slow vi-ruses. The patient first suffers gaps in both long- and short-term
memories. The viruses continue to eat away at the nervous system until the patient
collapses, staring and stupid, bedridden and in terrible agony. Finally, in the last stages, he
dies when his body forgets how to breathe or keep its heart beating. "How much for this?" I
asked.
"Fifty kiam," she said. She looked up slowly into my eyes and grinned. The few teeth she still
had were black stumps, and the effect was grotesquely ugly. "You pay extra 'cause it's a
hard-to-get item."
"All right," I said. I paid her and stuffed the D Syn-drome moddy in my pocket. Then I tried to
get out of Laila's shop.
"You know," she said, putting her clawlike hand on my arm, "my lover is taking me to the
opera tonight. All of Rouen will see us together!"
I pulled myself away and hurried out the door. "In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the
Merciful," I mut-tered.
During the long drive out to Abu Adil's estate, I thought about recent events. If Kmuzu were
right, then the fire had been started by Umm Saad's son. I didn't think that young Saad had
acted on his own. Yet Umar had assured me that neither he nor Abu Adil still employed
Umm Saad. He had flatly invited me to dispose of her, if I found her too irritating. Then if
Umm Saad wasn't getting her orders direct from Abu Adil, why had she decided suddenly to
take things into her own hands?
And Jawarski. Had he taken a few potshots at me because he didn't like my looks, or
because Hajjar had let Abu Adil know that I was nosing around after the Phoenix File? Or
were there even more sinister connections that I hadn't yet discovered? At this point, I didn't
dare trust Saied or even Kmuzu. Morgan was the only other person who had my confidence,
and I had to admit that there really wasn't any good reason to trust him, either. He just
reminded me of the way I used to be, before I'd gone to work changing a corrupt system
from within.
That, by the way, was my current rationalization for what I was doing, the easy life I was
leading. I suppose the bitter truth was that I didn't have the guts to face Fried-
lander Bey's wrath, or the heart to turn my back on his money. I told myself that I was using
my position deep in the pits of dishonor to help the less fortunate. It didn't really shut up my
guilty conscience.
As I drove, the guilt and loneliness amounted almost to desperation, and are probably to
blame for the tactical error that came next. Maybe I should have had more faith in Saied or
Kmuzu. I could at least have brought one of the Stones That Speak with me. Instead, I was
counting on my n cleverness to see me through a confrontation with Aou Adil. After all, I did
have two separate plans: First, I thought I might try bribing him with the D Syndrome noddy;
and second, if he didn't take to buttering up, my fallback position consisted of hitting him
between the •js with my full knowledge of what he was up to.
Well, hell, it sounded like a great idea at the time.
The guard at Abu Adil's gate recognized me and passed me through, although Kamal, the
butler, de-manded to know what I wanted. "I've brought a gift for Shaykh Reda," I said. "It's
urgent that I talk with him."
He wouldn't let me leave the foyer. "Wait here," he •id with a sneer. "I will see if it is
permitted."
"The passive voice should be avoided," I said. He didn't get it.
He went all the way down to Abu Adil's office, and came all the way back with the same
contemptuous look his face. "I'm to bring you to my master," he said. It minded like it broke
his heart to accommodate me.
He led me into one of Abu Adil's offices, not the same one I'd seen on my first visit with
Shaknahyi. A sweet smell, maybe incense, filled the air. There were framed prints of
European art masterpieces on the walls, and I • .ird a recording of Umm Khalthoum playing
softly.
The great man himself was sitting in a comfortable
armchair, with a beautifully embroidered blanket over his
knees. His head lolled back against the back of the chair,
1 his eyes were closed. His hands were laid flat on his knees, and they trembled.
Umar Abdul-Qawy was there, of course, and he didn't look happy to see me. He nodded to
me and put one finger his lips. I guessed this was a signal not to mention any of the things
he'd discussed with me concerning his plans to unseat Abu Adil and rule the old shaykh's
empire in his place. That wasn't why I was here. I had more important things to worry about
than Umar's half-assed power strug-gle.
"I have the honor to wish Shaykh Reda good after-noon," I said.
"May Allah make the afternoon prosperous to you," said Umar.
We'll see, I thought. "I beg to present the noble shaykh with this small gift."
Umar made a small gesture, the little flick of the hand a lordly king uses to command a
peasant to approach. I wanted to stuff the moddy down his fat throat. "What is it?" he asked.
I said nothing. I just gave it to him. Umar turned it over in his hand a few times. Then he
looked up at me. "You are more clever than I gave you credit," he said. "My master will be
greatly pleased."
"I hope he doesn't already have this module." "No, no." He placed it on Abu Adil's lap, but
the old man made no move to examine it. Umar studied me thoughtfully. "I would offer you
something in return, al-though I'm certain you would be courteous enough to refuse."
"Try me," I said. "I'd like a little information." Umar frowned. "Your manners—" 'They're
terrible, I know, but what can I say? I'm just an ignorant beaneater from the Maghreb. Now, I
seem to have uncovered all kinds of incriminating information about you and Shaykh
Reda—about Friedlander Bey too, to be honest. I'm talking about this goddamn Phoenix
File of yours." I waited to see Umar's reaction.
It wasn't long in coming. "I'm afraid, Monsieur Audran, that I don't know what you're talking
about. I suggest that your master may be engaged in highly illegal activities, and has
attempted to shift the blame—"
"Be silent." Umar and I both turned to stare at Reda Abu Adil, who had popped the Proxy
Hell moddy he'd been wearing. Umar was badly shaken. This was the first time Abu Adil had
seen fit to participate in a conversation, i It seemed he wasn't just a senile, helpless
figurehead.   » Without the cancer moddy chipped in, his face lost its      ' slackness, and his
eyes gained an intelligent fierceness.     I Abu Adil threw off the blanket and stood up from
the |
chair. "Hasn't Friedlander Bey explained to you about the Phoenix File?" he demanded.
"No, O Shaykh," I said. "It's something I learned of only today. He has kept the thing hidden
from me."
"But you delved into matters that don't concern you." I was frightened by Abu Adil's intensity.
Umar had never shown such passion or such strength of will. It was as if I were seeing
Shaykh Reda's baraka, a different kind of personal magic than Papa's. The moddy of Abu
Adil that Umar wore did not hint at the depth of the man. I supposed that no electronic device
could hope to capture the nature of baraka. This answered Umar's claim that with the moddy
he was the equal of Abu Adil. That was just self-delusion.
"I think they concern me," I said. "Isn't my name in that file?"
"Yes, I'm sure it is," said Abu Adil. "But you are placed highly enough that you stand only to
benefit."
"I'm thinking of my friends, who aren't so lucky."
Umar laughed humorlessly. "You show your weakness again," he said. "Now you bleed for
the dirt beneath your feet."
"Every sun has its setting," I told him. "Maybe some-day you'll find yourself slipping down in
the Phoenix File ratings. Then you'll wish you'd never heard of it."
"O Master," said Umar angrily, "have you not heard enough of this?"
Abu Adil raised a weary hand. "Yes, Umar. I have no great love for Friedlander Bey, and
even less for his crea-tures. Take him into the studio."
Umar came toward me, a needle gun in his hand, and I backed away. I didn't know what he
had in mind, but it wasn't going to be pleasant. "This way," he said. Under the
circumstances, I did what he wanted.
We left the office and walked down a connecting hall-way, then climbed a stairway to the
second floor. There was always an air of peace in this house. The light was filtered through
wooden lattices over high windows, and sounds were muffled by thick rugs on the floors. I
knew this serenity was an illusion. I knew I'd soon see Abu Adil's true nature.
"In here," he said, opening a thick metal door. He had a strange, expectant expression on
his face. I didn't like it at all. I went past him into a large soundproofed room. There was a
bed, a chair, and a cart with some electronic equipment on it. The far wall was a single
sheet of glass, and beyond it was a small control booth with banks of dials and readouts and
switches. I knew what it was. Reda Abu Adil had a personality module recording studio in
his home. It was like the hobbyist's ultimate dream.
"Give me the gun," said Abu Adil.
Umar passed the needle gun to his master, then left the soundproofed room. "I suppose you
want to add me to your collection," I said. "I don't see why. My second-de-gree burns won't
be all that entertaining." Abu Adil just stared at me with that fixed grin on his face. He made
my skin crawl.
A little while later, Umar returned! He had a long. thin metal rod, a pair of handcuffs, and a
rope with a hook at one end. "Oh jeez," I said. I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. I was
truly afraid that they wanted to record more than just that.
"Stand up straight," said Umar, walking around and around me. He reached out and
removed the moddy and daddies I was wearing. "And whatever you do, don't duck your
head. That's for your own good."
"Thanks for your concern," I said. "I appreciate—" Umar raised the metal rod and brought it
down across my right collarbone. I felt a knife-edge of pain shoot through me, and I cried out.
He hit me on the other side, across the other collarbone. I heard the abrupt snapping of
bone: and I fell to my knees.
"This may hurt a little," said Abu Adil in the voice of a kindly old doctor.
Umar began beating me on the back with the rod, once, twice, three times. I screamed. He
struck me a few more times. "Try to stand up," he urged.
"You're crazy," I gasped.
"If you don't stand up, I'll use this on your face."
I struggled to my feet again. My left arm hung use-lessly. My back was a bleeding ruin. I
realized I was breathing in shallow sobs.
Umar paused and walked around me again, evaluat-ing me. "His legs," said Abu Adil.
"Yes, O Shaykh." The son of a bitch whipped the rod across my thighs, and I fell to the floor
again. "Up," grunted Umar. "Up."
He hit me where I lay, on my thighs and calves until they were dripping with blood too. "I'll get
you," I said in a voice hoarse with agony. "I swear by the blessed Prophet, I'll get you."
The beatings went on for a long time, until Umar had slowly and carefully worked over every
part of me—ex-cept my head. Abu Adil had instructed him to spare my head, because he
didn't want anything to interfere with the quality of the recording. When the old man decided
that I'd had enough, he told Umar to stop. "Connect him," he said.
I lifted my head and watched. It was almost like being in someone else, far away. My
muscles jumped in an-guished spasms, and my wounds sent sharp signals of tor-ment
through every part of me. Yet the pain had become a barrier between my mind and body. I
knew that I still hurt terribly, but I'd taken enough punishment to send my body into shock. I
muttered curses and pleas to my two captors, threatening and begging them to give me
back the pain-blocking daddy.
Umar only laughed. He went over to the cart and did something with the equipment there.
Then he carried a large, shiny moddy link over to me. It looked a lot like the one we used
with the Transpex game. Umar knelt beside me and showed it to me. "I'm going to chip this
in for you," he said. "It will allow us to record exactly what you're feeling."
I was having a difficult time breathing. "Motherfuck-ers," I said, my voice a shallow wheeze.
Umar snapped the chrome-steel moddy link onto my anterior corymbic plug. "Now, this is a
completely pain-less procedure," he said.
"You're gonna die," I muttered. "You're gonna fuckin' die."
Abu Adil was still holding the needle gun on me, but I couldn't have done anything heroic
anyway. Umar knelt down and fastened my hands behind me with the hand-cuffs. I felt like I
was going to pass out, and I kept shaking my head to stay conscious. I didn't want to black
out and be completely at their mercy, though that was probably already true.
After he got my wrists bound, Umar caught the hand-cuffs with the hook and pulled on the
rope until I stag-gered to my feet. Then he threw the end of the rope over a bar mounted on
the wall high over my head. I saw what he was going to do. "Yallah," I cried. He pulled on the
rope until I was hoisted up on tiptoes with my arms raised behind my back. Then he pulled
some more until my feet no longer touched the floor. I was hanging from the rope, the full
weight of my body slowly pulling my arms from their sockets.
It was so excruciating, I could only take panting little breaths. I tried to shut out the horrible
pain; I prayed first for mercy, then for death.
"Put the moddy in now," said Abu Adil. His voice seemed to come from another world, from
high on a mountaintop or far below the ocean.
"I take refuge with the Lord of the Dawn," I mur-mured. I kept repeating that phrase like a
magic charm.
Umar stood on the chair with the gray moddy in his hand, the D Syndrome moddy I'd
brought. He chipped it onto my posterior plug.
He was hanging from the ceiling, but he couldn 't remember why. He was in terrible agony.
"In the name of Allah, help me!" he cried. He realized that shouting just made the pain
worse. Why was he here? He couldn't re-member. Who had done this to him?
He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember any-thing.
Time went by, and he might have been unconscious. He had the same feeling one has on
waking from a partic-ularly vivid dream, when the waking world and the dream are
superimposed for a moment, when aspects of one distort images of the other, and one must
make an effort to sort them and decide which shall have prece-dence.
How could he explain being alone and bound like this? He wasn 't afraid of the hurting, but
he was afraid he wasn 't equal to the task of understanding his situation. There was the low
hum of a fan above his head, and a faint spicy smell in the air. His body twisted a little on the
rope, and he felt another slash of pain. He was bothered more by the notion that he
appeared to be involved in a terrible drama and had no sense at all of its significance.
"Praise be to Allah, Lord'of the Worlds," he whis-pered, "the Beneficent, the Merciful. Owner
of the Day of Judgment. Thee alone we worship. Thee alone we ask for •lp"
Time passed. The suffering grew. Finally, he did not Tfmember enough even to wince or
writhe. Sights and unds played through his numbed senses upon his arowsing mind. He was
beyond evaluating or reacting, but he was not yet quite dead. Someone spoke to him, but he
did not respond.
"How's that?"
Let me tell you, it was horrible. All of a sudden, un-derstanding poured back into my
consciousness. Every bit of pain that had been held at bay suddenly returned with a
vengeance. I must have whimpered, because he kept saying "It's all right, it's all right."
I looked up. It was Saied. "Hey," I said. It was all I could manage.
"It's all right," he told me again. I didn't know if I Aould believe him. He looked pretty worried.
I was lying in an alley between some rundown, aban-doned tenement buildings. I didn't know
how I'd gotten there. At the moment, I didn't care.
"These yours?" he said. He was folding a small hand-ful of daddies and three moddies.
One of them was Rex and one was the gray D Syn-drome moddy. I almost wept when I
recognized the pain-Wocker daddy. "Gimme," I said. My hands shook as I reached up and
chipped it in. Almost instantly I felt great again, although I knew I still had terrible lacerations
and at least a broken collarbone. The daddy worked faster than even a ton of Sonneine.
"You got to tell me what you're doing here," I said. I sat up, filled with the illusion of health and
well-being.
"I came after you. Wanted to make sure you didn't get into any trouble or anything. The guard
at the gate knows me, and so does Kamal. I went into the house and saw what they were
doing to you, then I waited till they dragged you out. They must've thought you were dead, or
else they don't care if you recover or not. I grabbed up the hardware and followed. They
dumped you in this stinking alley, and I hid around the corner till they left."
I put my hand on his shoulders. "Thanks," I said.
"Hey," said the Half-Hajj with a loopy grin, "no thanks are needed. Muslim brothers and all
that, right?"
I didn't want to argue with him. I picked up the third moddy he'd found. "What's this?" I asked.
"You don't know? It's not one of yours?"
I shook my head. Saied took the moddy from me, reached up, and chipped it in. A moment
later his expres-sion changed. He looked awed. "May my father's balls burn in Hell!" he said.
"It's Abu Adil."
The Half-Hajj insisted on going with me to find the building where Paul Jawarski was
hiding out. "You're a wreck," he told me, shaking his head. "You pop that daddy, you'll
realize what bad shape you're in. You should go to the hospital."
"I just got out of the hospital," I said.
"Well, obviously it didn't take. You got to go back again."
"Fine, I'll go when this business with Jawarski's all over. I'll keep the daddy in till then. And I'll
probably need Rex."
Saied squinted at me. "You need a lot more than Rex. You need half a dozen of your cop
buddies."
I laughed bitterly. "I don't think they'd show up. I don't think Hajjar would even send them."
We were making our way slowly along Hamidiyya's main north-south avenue. "What do you
mean?" asked Saied. "You think Hajjar wants to pull off Jawarski's cap-ture himself? Get
himself a commendation and a medal?"
We turned down a narrow trash-choked alley and found the rear of the building we were
looking for. "Shaknahyi had the idea that he'd been set up," I said. "He thought maybe
Jawarski was working for Hajjar."
"I thought Jawarski was working for Shaykh Reda."
I shrugged. Without the pain-blocker, that would have been excruciatingly painful.
"Everybody we know moonlights. Why should Jawarski be any different?"
"No reason, I guess," said the Half-Hajj. "Now, you want me to go in with you?"
"No thanks, Saied. I want you to stay down here and guard this back entrance. I'm going
upstairs and talk with
Morgan. I want to be alone with Jawarski. I'm gonna send Morgan down to watch the front."
Saied looked worried. "I don't think that's smart, Maghrebi. Jawarski's a clever guy, and he
don't mind kill-ing people. You're not in any condition to wrestle with him."
"I won't have to." I reached up and chipped in Rex. I took my static pistol out of my pocket.
"Well, what you gonna do? If Hajjar's just gonna let Jawarski go free—"
"I'm going over Hajjar's head," I said. I was deter-mined that Jawarski wasn't going to
escape justice. "I'm gonna call the captain and the police superintendent and the news
media. They can't all be crooked."
"I don't see why not," said the Half-Hajj. "But you're probably right. Remember, we'll be right
down here if you need help. Jawarski won't get away this time."
I grinned at him. "Bet your ass he won't." I moved past him into the tenement building. I was
in a cool, dark hallway that led to a flight of stairs. There was the usual dank, musty smell of
an abandoned building. My feet scat-tered bits of rubble as I climbed up to the third floor.
"Morgan?" I called. He probably had a gun in his hand, and I didn't want to surprise him.
"Is that you, man? You sure took long enough getting here."
I arrived at the landing where he was sitting. "Sorry," I said, "I ran into a little trouble."
His eyes got big when he saw how torn and hurt I was. "Looks like you already ran into as
much as you can han-dle today, man."
"I'm fine, Morgan." I took five hundred kiam out of my jeans and paid him the rest of his
money. "Now, go keep an eye on the street entrance. I'll call if I need help."
The blond American started downstairs. "You need help," he said dubiously, "it'll be too late
by the time you shout."
The daddy had me feeling no pain, and Rex made me think I was equal to any challenge
Jawarski might present. I checked the charge in my static pistol, then rapped on the
apartment door. "Jawarski," I shouted, "this is Marid Audran. Jirji Shaknahyi was my partner.
I'm here to take you in for his murder."
I didn't have to wait long. Jawarski opened the door, laughing. He was holding a black .45
caliber automatic pistol. "Stupid son of a bitch, ain't you?" he said. He stood back so I could
get by.
I made sure he saw my weapon as I went past him, but he was so sure of himself that he
didn't act the least bit incerned. I sat down on a torn couch opposite the door. Jawarski
dropped into an armchair covered in blood-gained floral material. I was shocked by how
young he .is. I was surprised to see that he was at least five years > ounger than me.
"Ever hear what Islamic law does to murderers?" I asked him. We were holding our guns on
each other, but Jawarski seemed almost nonchalant.
"Nah, it don't make much difference," he said. "I don't care if I die." Jawarski had a peculiar
way of talking out of one side of his mouth, as if he thought it made him look tough and
fierce. He obviously had some serious psy-chological problems, but he wasn't going to live
long •^nough to clear them up. "So who told you I was here? I .ways bumped off squealers.
Tell me who it was, so I can fog the bastard."
"You won't get the chance, pal. You can't have the whole city bought off."
"Let's make this quick," he said, trying to upset me. "I'm supposed to collect my money and
leave town to-night." He didn't seem to be bothered at all by my static pistol.
He was staring to my right. I let my eyes drift in that direction, toward a small wooden table
not far from the couch, covered with newspaper. There were three clips of ammunition lying
there. "Was it Hajjar who told you to :11 Shaknahyi?" I asked. "Or Umar, Abu Adil's punk?" "I
ain't a squawker," he said. He gave me a twisted grin.
"And the others—Blanca Mataro, the rest of them. You didn't use that .45. How come?"
Jawarski shrugged. "They told me not to. They didn't want any of the parts damaged, I
guess. They told me who to put away and I done it with a little static gun. I always called in
the tip to the cops myself, so the cripple cart'd get there fast. I guess they didn't want the
meat to spoil." He gave a grunting chuckle that set my teeth on edge.
I glanced at the table, thinking that Jawarski might not have bothered to put a clip into his
pistol before he let me into the room. He looked like he enjoyed bluffing. "How many have
you killed?" I asked.
"You mean altogether?" Jawarski looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, I've got twenty-six anyway.
That's all I ever kept track of. Pretty near one for every year. And my birthday's comin' up
soon. How'd you like to be number twenty-seven?"
I felt a rush of fury. "You're real close, Jawarski," I said through clenched teeth.
"Go ahead, you got a girl's gun, lay me out if you got the guts." He was enjoying this,
mocking me and goading me. "Look, here's a clipping," he said. " 'Jawarski Bad Man,
Legendary Figure,' it says. How 'bout that?" "Ever think about the people you shoot?" I
asked. "I remember that cop. I turned and let him have it in the chest. He didn't even wobble,
but he shot back at me. I wasn't hit, though, and I beat it around behind the house. When I got
to the other side, I peeked around the corner and saw the cop I shot coming after me. I let fly
at him again, and ran behind another house. When I looked again he was still following me.
There was blood running all over the front of his coat then, but he was still following me. God,
that guy was a real man."
"Ever think about his family? Shaknahyi had a wife, you know. He had three kids."
Jawarski stared at me, and another crazy grin spread slowly across his face. "Fuck "em," he
said.
I stood up and took three steps. Jawarski raised his eyebrows at me, inviting me to come
closer. As he stood, I tossed him the static gun. He fumbled it against his chest with his left
hand, and I pulled my fist back and cracked him in the corner of his mouth. Then I grabbed
his right wrist tightly and turned outward, prepared to break the bones if I had to. He grunted
and dropped the automatic. "I'm not Hajjar," I snarled. "I'm not that goddamn Cat-avina.
You're not gonna buy me off, and right now I'm in no mood to worry about protecting your civil
rights. Un-derstand?" I bent and scooped up his gun. I'd been wrong. It was loaded.
Jawarski put a hand to his lips. When he pulled it away, his fingers were bloody. "You been
watching those
holoshows again, buddy," he said. He grinned, still not terribly worried. "You're no better'n
Hajjar. You're no better'n me, you want to know the truth. You'd put a round right through me,
if you thought you could get away with it."
"You're right about that," I said.
"But you think there's too many like Hajjar already. And it ain't even that Hajjar's a rotten cop.
He ain't. He's just acting the way they aH act, the way everybody ex-pects him to act, the way
he's supposed to act. It ain't wrong if everybody knows about it ahead of time. I'll tell you a
secret: You're gonna end up just like Shaknahyi. You're gonna help little old ladies across
the street until you're old enough to retire, and then some young son of a bitch like me is
gonna plant you in the ground." He reached his little finger into his ear and jiggled it a few
times. "And then," he said thoughtfully, "after you're gone, the young son of a bitch is gonna
jam your wife."
My face felt hard and tense, frozen into a cold stare. I raised the pistol calmly and held it
steadily, pointed be-tween Jawarski's eyes. "Watch it," he said scornfully. "That ain't a toy."
I grabbed back the static pistol and put it in my pocket. I motioned for Jawarski to sit down,
and I re-turned to my seat on the couch. We looked at each other for a few seconds. I was
breathing hard; Jawarski looked like he was enjoying himself.
"I'll bet you're doing everything you can to comfort Shaknahyi's widow," he said. "You
jammed her yet?"
I felt rage and frustration growing in me again. I hated hearing his lies, his justifications for
crime and cor-ruption. The worst part was that he was telling me Shaknahyi had died
stupidly, for no good reason. I wasn't going to let him say that. "Shut up," I said in a strained
voice. I found myself waving the automatic pistol at Jawarski.
"See? You can't shoot. It'd be smart to shoot. I'll get away clean otherwise, 'cause no matter
who locks me up, I'll be sprung. Shaykh Reda will make sure I get sprung. Ill never be
brought to trial in this town."
"No, you wouldn't be," I said, knowing it was proba-bly true. I fired once. The explosion was
tremendous, and the booming crack rumbled on forever, like thunder.
Jawarski fell backward in slow motion, half of his face blasted away. There was blood
everywhere. I dropped the pistol to the floor. I'd never shot anyone with a projectile weapon
before. I backed away and fell against the couch, unable to catch my breath.
When I'd come through the door, I hadn't planned to kill this man, but I had done it. It had
been a conscious decision. I had taken the responsibility for seeing justice done, because
I'd become certain it would be done no other way. I looked at the blood on my hands and
arms.
The door crashed loudly into the room. Morgan ran in first, followed by Saied. They stopped
just inside the threshold and took in the scene. "Aw right," said the Half-Hajj quietly. "That's
one loose end tied up tight."
"Listen, man," said Morgan, "I got to go. You don't need me for anything more, do you?"
I just stared at them. I wondered why they weren't horrified too.
"Let's go, man," said Morgan. "Somebody mightVe heard that."
"Oh, somebody heard it, all right," Saied said. "But in this neighborhood, nobody's dumb
enough to check on it."
I reached up and popped the tough-guy moddy. I'd had enough of Rex for a while. We left the
apartment and went down the stairs. Morgan turned one way on the sidewalk, and the
Half-Hajj and I turned the other.
"What now?" asked Saied.
"We got to go get the car," I said. I didn't like the idea at all. The sedan was still back at Abu
Adil's. I really didn't feel like going back there so soon after the bastard mind-raped me. I
was going back there; I had that score t<§ settle. But not just yet, not just now.
Saied must have guessed my feelings from the tone of my voice. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll
go get the car, you sit here and wait. Won't take long."
"Fine," I said, and I gave him the keys. I was im-mensely grateful that he'd come looking for
me, and that I could count on him for help. I had no trouble trusting him again. That was
good, because even with the pain-override daddy chipped in, my body was near collapse. I
needed to get to a doctor soon.
I didn't want to sit down on a step, because I thought
I'd have a hard time standing again. Instead, I leaned
against the white stucco front of a small, tottery house. Overhead, I heard the shrill peenting
cries of nighthawfcs as they swooped over the rooftops hunting for insects. I stared across
the street at another apartment building, and I saw wild, healthy ferns growing from horizontal
surfaces up and down the wall, weeds that had found favorable conditions in the most
unlikely place. Cooking smells drifted from open windows: cabbage boiling, meat masting,
bread baking.
I was immersed in life here, yet I could not forget that Td shed a murderer's blood. I was still
holding the auto-matic pistol. I didn't know how I was going to dispose of it. v mind wasn't
thinking clearly.
After a while, I saw the cream-colored sedan stop beside me at the curb. Saied got out and
helped me around to the passenger side. I slid into the seat, and he dosed the door. "Where
to?" he asked. "Goddamn hospital," I said. "Good idea."
I closed my eyes and felt the car thrumming through the streets. I dozed a little. Saied woke
me when we got there. I shoved my static pistol and the .45 under the seat, and we got out of
the car.
"Listen," I said, "I'm just going into the emergency room and get patched up. After that, I got
a few people to see. Why don't you get going?"
The Half-Hajj's brows narrowed. "What's the matter? Still don't trust rne?"
I shook my head. "It's not that, Saied. I've gotten over all that. It's just sometimes I work better
without an audi-ence, okay?"
"Sure. A busted collarbone ain't enough for you. You won't be happy till we got to bury you in
five separate containers." "Saied."
He raised both hands. "All right, all right. You want to storm back in on Shaykh Reda and
Himmar, that's your
business."
"I'm not gonna face them again," I said. "I mean, not
yet."
"Uh yeah, well, let me know when you do."
"You bet," I said. I gave him twenty kiam. "You can get a cab here, can't you?"
"Uh huh. Give me a call later." He gave me back the
keys to my car.       i
I nodded and went up the curving drive to the emer-gency room entrance. Saied had brought
me to the same hospital I'd been in twice before. I was beginning to feel comfortable there.
I filled out their damn forms and waited half an hour until one of the residents could see me.
He pumped some-thing under the skin of my shoulder with a perfusor, then went about
manipulating the broken bones. "This is prob-ably gonna hurt," he said.
Well, he didn't know that I had software chipped in that took care of that. I was probably the
only person in the world who had that add-on, but I wasn't a well-known celebrity. I made
some appropriate grunts and grimaces, but on the whole I acted brave. He immobilized my
left arm with a kind of superstiff shrinkwrap. "You're handling this real well," he said.
"I've had esoteric training," I said. "The control of pain is all in the mind." That was true
enough; it was plugged into the mind on the end of a long, plastic-sheathed silver wire.
"Whatever," said the doctor. When he finished with my collarbone, he treated the cuts and
scrapes. Then he scribbled something on a prescription pad. "Still, I'm gonna give you this
for pain. You may find that you need it. If you don't, great." He ripped the page loose and
handed it to me.
I glanced at it. He'd written me for twenty Nofeqs, painkillers so feeble that in the Budayeen
you couldn't' trade ten of them for a single Sonneine. "Thanks," I said bluntly.
"No sense being a hero and toughing it out when medical science is there to help." He
glanced around and decided that he was finished with me. "You'll be all right in about six
weeks, Mr. Audran. I advise you to see your own physician in a few days."
"Thanks," I said again. He gave me some papers and I took them to a window and paid
cash. Then I went out into the main lobby of the hospital and took the elevator up to the
twentieth floor. There was a different nurse on
duty, but Zain, the security guard, recognized me. I went down the hall to Suite One.
A doctor and a nurse stood beside Papa's bed. They turned to look at me as I came in, their
faces grim. "Is something wrong?" I asked, frightened.
The doctor rubbed his gray beard with one hand. "He's in serious trouble," he said.
"What the hell happened?" I demanded.
"He'd been complaining of weakness, headaches, and abdominal pain. For a long while we
couldn't find any-thing to explain it."
"Yes," I said, "he'd been getting ill at home, before the fire. He was too sick to escape by
himself."
"We ran more sensitive tests," said the doctor, "and finally something turned up positive.
He's been given a rather sophisticated neurotoxin, apparently over a period of weeks."
I felt cold. Someone had been poisoning Friedlander Bey, probably someone in the house.
He certainly had enough enemies, and my recent experience with the Half-Hajj proved that I
couldn't dismiss anyone as a sus-pect. Then, suddenly, my eyes fell on something resting on
Papa's tray table. It was a round metal tin, its cover lying beside it. In the tin was a layer of
dates stuffed with nutmeats and rolled in sugar.
"Umm Saad," I murmured. She'd been feeding those dates to him since she'd come to live
in his house. I went to the tray table. "If you analyze these," I told the doctor, "I'll bet you'll find
the source."
"But who—"
"Don't worry about who," I said. "Just make him well." This was all because I'd been so
caught up in my own vendetta against Jawarski that I hadn't given proper attention to Umm
Saad. As I headed for the door I thought, didn't Augustus Caesar's wife poison him with figs
from his own tree, to get rid of him so her son could be emperor? I excused myself for
overlooking the similarity before; there's so goddamn much history, it just can't help
repeating itself.
I went down and bailed my car out of the parking lot, then drove to the station house. I had
myself completely under control by the time the elevator brought me up to the third floor. I
headed toward Hajjar's office; Sergeant
Catavina tried to stop me, but I just shoved him up against a painted plasterboard wall and
kept walking. I flung open Hajjar's door. "Hajjar," I said. All the anger and disgust I felt toward
him were in those two syllables.
He glanced up from some paperwork. His expression turned fearful when he saw the look
on my face. "Audran," he said. "What is it?"
I lofted the .45 onto his desk in front of him. "Remem-ber that American we were looking
for? The guy who killed Jirji? Well, they found him lying on the floor of some rattrap.
Somebody shot him with his own gun."
Hajjar stared unhappily at the automatic. "Somebody shot him, huh? Any idea who?"
"Unfortunately, no." I gave him an evil grin. "I don't have a microscope or nothing, but it looks
to me like whoever did it also wiped his fingerprints right off the weapon. We may never
solve this murder, either."
Hajjar sat back in his reclining chair. "Probably not. Well, at least the citizens will be glad to
hear that Jawar-ski's been neutralized. Good police work, Audran."
"Yeah," I said. "Sure." I turned to leave, and I got as far as the door. Then I faced him again.
"That's one down, know what I mean? And two to go."
"The hell you talking about?"
"I mean Umm Saad and Abu Adil are next. And some-thing else: I know who you are and I
know what you're doing. Watch your ass. The guy who blew Jawarski away is out there, and
he may have you in his sights next." I had the pleasure of seeing Hajjar's superior grin
vanish. When I left his office, he was muttering to himself and reaching for his phone.
Catavina was waiting in the corridor by the elevator. "What'd you say?" he asked worriedly.
"What'd you tell him?"
"Don't worry, Sarge," I said, "your afternoon nap is safe, at least for a while. But I wouldn't be
surprised if suddenly there's a call to reform the police department. You might have to start
acting like a real cop for a change." I pushed the button for the elevator. "And lose some
weight while you're at it."
My mood was a little better as I rode back down to the ground floor. When I walked back into
the early evening sunlight, I felt almost normal.
Almost. I was still a prisoner of my own guilt. I'd planned to go home and find out more
details about Kmuzu's relationship to Abu Adil, but I found myself heading in the other
direction. When I heard the evening call to prayer, I left the car on Souk el-Khemis Street.
There was a small mosque there, and I paused in the courtyard to remove my shoes and
make the ablution. Then I went into the mosque and prayed. It was the first time I'd done that
seriously in years.
Joining in worship with the others who came to this neighborhood mosque didn't cleanse
me of my doubts and bad feelings. I hadn't expected that they would. I did feel a warmth,
however, a sense of belonging that had been missing from my life since childhood. For the
first time since coming to the city, I could approach Allah in all humility, and with sincere
repentance my prayers might be accepted.
After the prayer service, I spoke with an elder of the mosque. We talked for some time, and
he told me that I had been right to come and pray. I was grateful that he didn't lecture me,
that he made me comfortable and wel-come.
"There is one more thing, O Respected One," I said.
"Yes?"
"Today I killed a man."
He did not seem terribly shocked. He stroked his long beard for several seconds. "Tell me
why you did this," he said at last.
I told him everything I knew about Jawarski, about his record of violent crimes before he'd
come to the city, about his shooting of Shaknahyi. "He was a bad man," I said, "but, even so,
I feel like a criminal myself."
The elder put one hand on my shoulder. "In the Su-rah of The Cow," he said, "it is written that
retaliation is prescribed in the matter of murder. What you did is no crime in the eyes of
Allah, all praise to Him."
I looked deeply into the old mdn's eyes. He wasn't merely trying to make me feel better. He
wasn't just put-ting my conscience at ease. He was reciting the law as the Messenger of
God had revealed it. I knew the passage of the Qur'an he'd mentioned, but I needed to hear
it from someone whose authority I respected. I felt wholly ab-solved. I almost wept with
gratitude.
I left the mosque in a strange mixture of moods: I was filled with unrequited rage toward Abu
Adil and Umm Saad, but at the same time I felt a well-being and gladness I could not
describe. I decided to make another stop be-fore I went home.
Chiri was taking over the night shift when I came into
the club. I sat on my usual stool at the bend of the bar. l
"White Death?" she asked. f
"No," I said, "I can't stay long. Chiri, you got any
Sonneine?" k
She stared at me for a few seconds. "I don't think so. I
How'd you hurt your arm?" I
"Any Paxium then? Or beauties?" f
She rested her chin in her hand. "Honey, I thought
you'd sworn off drugs. I thought you were being clean
from now on." »
"Aw hell, Chiri," I said, "don't give me a hard time." I
She just reached under the counter and came up with her little black pillcase. "Take what
you want, Marid," she said. "I guess you know what you're doing."
"I sure do," I said, and I helped myself to half a dozen caps and tabs. I got some water and
swallowed them, and I didn't even pay much attention to what they were.
I didn't do anything strenuous for a week or so, but my mind raced like a frantic greyhound. I
plotted revenge against Abu Adil and Umar a hundred different ways: I scalded their flesh in
boiling vats of noxious fluids; I let loose hideous plague organisms that would make their
Proxy Hell moddies seem like summer colds; I hired teams of sadistic ninjas to creep into
the great house and slaughter them slowly with subtle knife wounds. In the meantime, my
body began to recover its strength, al-though all the superluminal brain augmentation in the
world couldn't speed up the knitting of broken bones.
The delay was almost more than I could stand, but I had a wonderful nurse. Yasmin had
taken pity on me. Saied had been responsible for distributing the story of my heroics. Now
everyone in the Budayeen knew how I'd faced down Jawarski single-handed. They'd also
heard that he'd been so shamed by my moral example that he embraced Islam on the spot,
and that while we prayed together Abu Adil and Umar tried to tiptoe in and kill me, but
Jawarski leaped between us and died saving the life of his new Muslim brother.
Then there was the sequel, in which Umar and Abu Adil captured me and took me back to
their evil castle, where they tortured me, mind-raped me, and forced me to sign blank
checks and deceptive home repairs con-tracts until Saied the Half-Hajj burst in to my
rescue. What the hell. I didn't see that embellishing the facts a little hurt him or me.
In any event, Yasmin was so attentive and solicitous, I think Kmuzu was a little jealous. I
didn't see why. Many of the attentions I received from Yasmin weren't in Kmuzu's job
description at all. I awoke one morning to find her
straddling me, rubbing my chest. She didn't have a stitch of clothing on.
"Well," I said sleepily, "in the hospital, the nurses rarely take their uniforms off."
"They've had more training," said Yasmin. "I'm a be-ginner at this, I'm still not entirely sure
what I'm doing."
"You know what you're doing, all right," I said. Her massaging moved slowly south. I was
waking up fast.
"Now, you're not supposed to do anything too strenu-ous, so let me do all the work."
"Fine," I said. I looked up at her and remembered how much I loved her. I also remembered
how crazy she could make me in bed. Before I got completely carried away, I said, "What if
Kmuzu comes in?"
"He's gone to church. Besides," she said wickedly, "even Christians must learn about sex
sooner or later. Otherwise, where do new Christians come from?"
"Missionaries convert them from people who are minding their own business," I said.
But Yasmin really didn't intend to get into a religious discussion. She raised up and slid
herself down on top of me. She let out a happy sigh. "It's been a long time," she said.
"Yeah," I said. It was all I could think to say; my concentration was elsewhere.
"When my hair gets long again, I'll be able to tickle you with it like I used to."
"You know," I said, beginning to breathe heavily, "I've always had this fantasy—"
Yasmin's eyes opened wide. "Not with my hair, you won't!" she said. Well, we all have our
inhibitions. I just didn't think I'd ever suggest anything kinky enough to shock Yasmin.
I'm not going to claim that we jammed all morning until we heard Kmuzu enter the living
room. First of all, I hadn't jammed anyone at all in weeks; second, being to-gether again
made both of us frantic. It was a short bout, but very intense. Afterward, we held each other
and didn't say anything for a while. I could have fallen back to sleep, but Yasmin doesn't like
that.
"You ever wish I was a tall, willowy, blond woman?" she asked.
"I've never gotten along very well with real women."
"You like Indihar, I know you do. I've seen you look-ing at her."
"You're crazy. She's just not as bad as the other girls"
I felt Yasmin shrug. "But do you ever wish I was toll and blond?"
"You could've been. When you were still a boy, you could've asked the surgeons for that."
She buried her face against my neck. "They told me I didn't have the skeleton," she said, her
voice muffled.
"I think you're perfect just the way you are." I waited a beat. "Except you've got the biggest
feet I've ever seen in my life."
Yasmin sat up quickly. She wasn't amused. "You want your other collarbone broken,
baheem?"
It took me half an hour and a long hot shower to-gether to restore peace. I got dressed and
watched Yasmin set herself ready to go out. For once, she wasn't running late. She didn't
have to go to work until eight o'clock that evening. "Coming by the club later?" she asked,
looking at my reflection in the mirror over my dresser.
"Sure," I said. "I've got to make my presence felt, or ill you employees will get the idea I'm
running a resort."
Yasmin grinned. "You ain't running nothing, honey," &e said. "Chiri runs that club, like she
always has."
"I know." I'd come to enjoy owning the place. I'd originally planned to turn the club back to
Chiri as soon as possible, but now I'd decided to hang on to it for a while. It made me feel
great to get special treatment from Brandi, Kandy, Pualani and the others. I liked being Mr.
Boss.
After Yasmin left, I went to my desk and sat down. My original apartment had been repaired
and painted, and I was living again on the second floor of the west wing. Staying just down
the hall from my mother had been nerve-wracking, even for only a few days, even after our
surprise reconciliation. I felt recovered enough to turn my attention back to the unfinished
business of Umm Saad and Abu Adil.
When I finally decided that I couldn't put it off any longer, I picked up the tan-colored moddy,
the recording of Abu Adil. "Bismillah," I murmured, and then hesi-tantly I reached up and
chipped it in.
Madness, by the life of the Prophet!
Audran felt as if he were peering through a narrow tunnel, seeing the world with Abu Adil's
mean, self-cen-tered outlook. Things were only good for Abu Adil or bad for Abu Adil; if they
were neither, they did not exist.
The next thing Audran noticed was that he was in a state of sexual arousal. Of course; Abu
Adil's only sexual pleasure came from jamming himself, or a facsimile of himself. That's what
Umar was—a frame on which to hang this electronic duplicate. And Umar was too stupid to
realize that's all he was, that he had no other qualifica-tions that made him valuable. When
he displeased Abu Adil, or began to bore him, Umar would be replaced im-mediately, as so
many others had been disposed of over the years.
What about the Phoenix File? What did A.L.M. mean?
Of course, the memory was right there . . . Alif. Lam. Mim.
They weren't initials at all. They weren't some un-known acronym. They came from the
Qur'&n. Many of the surahs in the Qur'&n began with letters of the al-phabet. No one knew
what they meant. Indications of some mystical phrase, perhaps, or the initials of a scribe.
Their significance had been lost through the centuries.
There was more than one surah that began with Alif, Lam, Mim, but Audran knew
immediately which one was special. It was Surah Thirty, called The Romans; the im-portant
line read "Allah is He Who created you and then sustained you, then causeth you to die, then
giveth life to you again. "It was obvious that, just like Friedlander Bey, , Shaykh Reda also
pictured his own face when he spoke the name of God.
And suddenly Audran knew that the Phoenix File, with its lists of unsuspecting people who
might be mur-dered for organs, was recorded on a cobalt-alloy memory plate hidden in Abu
Adil's private bedroom.
And other things became clear to Audran as well. When he thought of Umm Saad, Abu
Adil's memory re-lated that she was not, in fact, any relation to Friedlander Bey, but that she
had agreed to spy on him. Umm Saad's reward would be the removal of her name and that
of her son from the Phoenix File. She would never have to worry that someday someone
she did not even know might have greater need of her heart or her liver or her lungs. Audran
learned that it had been Umm Saad who'd hired Paul Jawarski, and Abu Adil had extended
his pro-tection to the American killer. Umm Saad had brought Jawarski to the city and
passed along the assignments from Shaykh Reda to kill certain people listed on the
Phoenix File. Umm Saad was partly responsible for those deaths, and for the fire and the
poisoning of Friedlander Bey.
Audran was sickened, and the horrible, floating feel-ing of insanity was threatening to
overwhelm him. He reached up and grabbed the moddy and pulled it free.
Yipe. That was the first time I'd ever used a moddy recorded from a living person. It had
been a disgusting experience. It had been like being immersed in slime, except that you
could wash slime away; having your mind fouled was more intimate and more terrible. From
now on, I promised myself, I'd stick with fictional characters and moddy constructs.
Abu Adil was even more brainsick than I'd imagined. Still, I'd learned a few things—or, at
least, my suspicions had been confirmed. Surprisingly, I could understand Umm Saad's
motivations. If I'd known about the Phoenix File, I'd have done anything to get my name off" it
too.
I wanted to talk some of this over with Kmuzu, but he wasn't back from his Sabbath service
yet. I thought I'd see if my mother had anything more to tell me.
I crossed the courtyard to the east wing. There was a little pause when I knocked on her
door. "Coming," she called. I heard glass clinking, then the sound of a drawer opening and
shutting. "Coming." When she opened the door to me, I could smell the Irish whiskey. She'd
been very circumspect during her stay in Papa's house, I'm sure she drank and took drugs
as much as ever, but at least she had the self-control not to parade herself around when she
was smashed.
"Peace be on you, O Mother," I said.
"And on you be peace," she said. She leaned against the door a little unsteadily. "Do you
want to come in, O Shaykh?"
"Yes, I need to talk to you." I waited until she'd
opened the door wider and stepped back. I came in and took a seat on the couch. She
faced me in a comfortable armchair.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I got nothin' to offer you." "Uh yeah, that's okay." She looked well. She
had abandoned the outlandish makeup and clothing, and now she rather resembled my
former mental image of her: Her hair was brushed, she was suitably dressed, and she was
modestly seated with her hands folded in her lap. I recalled Kmuzu's comment that I judged
my mother more harshly than I judged myself, and forgave her the drunkenness. She wasn't
hurting anybody.
"O Mother," I said, "you said that when you came back to the city, you made the mistake of
trusting Abu Adil again. I know that it was my friend Saied who brought you here."
"You know that?" she said. She seemed wary.,
"And I know about the Phoenix File. Now, why were you willing to spy on Friedlander Bey?"
Her expression was amazed. "Hey," she said, "if somebody offered to cross you off that
goddamn list, wouldn't you do just about anything? I mean, hell, I told myself I wouldn't give
Abu Adil nothin' he could really use against Papa. I didn't think I was hurtin' nobody."
That's just what I'd hoped to hear. Abu Adil had squeezed Umm Saad and my mother in the
same vise. Umm Saad had responded by trying to kill everyone in our house. My mother
had reacted differently; she'd fled to Friedlander Bey's protection.
I pretended that the matter wasn't important enough to discuss further. "You also said that
you wished to do something useful with your life. You still feel that way?" "Sure, I suppose,"
she said suspiciously. She looked uncomfortable, as if she were waiting for me to condemn
her to some horrible fate of civic consciousness.
"I've put away some money," I said, "and I've given Kmuzu the job of starting up a kind of
charity kitchen in the Budayeen. I was wondering if you'd like to help with the project."
"Oh sure," she said, frowning, "whatever you want." She couldn't have been less enthusiastic
if I'd asked her to cut out her own tongue.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
I was startled to see tears slipping down her pale cheek. "You know, I didn't think I'd come to
this. I'm still good lookin', ain't I? I mean, your father thought I was beautiful. He used to tell
me that all the time, and that wasn't so long ago. I think if I had some decent clothes— not
that stuff I brought with me from Algiers—I could still turn a few heads. No reason I got to be
lonely the rest of my life, is there?"
I didn't want to get into that. "You're still attractive, Mother."
"You bet your ass," she said, smiling again. "I'm gonna get me a short skirt and some boots.
Don't look at me that way, I mean a tasteful short skirt. Fifty-seven years old ain't so bad
these days. Look at Papa."
Yeah, well, Papa was lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to pull his own sheet up
under his chin.
"And you know what I want?" she asked with a dreamy expression.
I was afraid to ask. "No, what?" "I saw this picture of Umm Khalthoum in the souk. Ifade out
of thousands of flat-head nails. This guy pounded 'em all into this big board, then painted
each nail head a different color. You can't see what it is close up, but •• en you step back, it's
this gorgeous picture of The Lady."
"Yeah, you righi," I said. I could just see it hanging on the wall over Friedlander Bey's
expensive and tasteful furniture.
"Well, hell, I got some money put away too." I must have looked surprised, because she
said, "I got some wcrets of my own, you know. I been around, I seen things. I got my own
friends and I got my own cash. So don't think 11 can order my life for me just 'cause you set
me up here. I can pick up and leave anytime I want."
"Mother," I said, "I really don't want to tell you how to act or what to do. I just thought you
might like helping out in the Budayeen. There's a lot of people there as poor as we used to
be."
She wasn't listening closely. "We used to be poor, Marid," she said, drifting off to a fantasy
recollection of what those times had been like, "but we was always happy. Those were the
good days." Then her expression
turned sad, and she looked at me again. "And look at me
now.
"Got to go," I said. I stood up and headed for the door. "May your vigor continue, O Mother.
By your leave."
"Go in peace," she said, coming with me to the door. "Remember what I told you."
I didn't know what she meant. Even under the best conditions, conversations with my mother
were filled with little information and much static. With her, it was always one step forward
and two steps back. I was glad to see that she didn't seem to have any thoughts of returning
to Algiers, or going into her old line of work here. At least, that's what I thought she'd meant.
She'd said something about "turning some heads," but I hoped she meant purely in a
noncommercial way. I thought about these things as I went back to my suite in the west wing.
Kmuzu had returned, and was gathering up our dirty laundry. "A call came for you, yaa Sidi,"
he said.
"Here?" I wondered why it hadn't come on my per-sonal line, on the phone I wore on my belt.
"Yes. There was no message, but you are supposed to call Mahmoud. I left the number on
your desk."
This could be good news. I'd planned to tackle the second of my three targets next—Umm
Saad; but she might have to wait. I went to the desk and spoke Mahmoud's commcode into
the phone. He answered im-mediately. "Allo," he said.
"Where y'at, Mahmoud. It's Marid."
"Good.. I have some business to discuss with you."
"Let me get comfortable." I pulled out a chair and sat down. I couldn't help a grin from
spreading over my face. "Okay, what you got?"
There was a slight pause. "As you know, I was greatly saddened by the death of Jirji
Shaknahyi, may the bless-ings of Allah be on him."
I knew nothing of the kind. If I hadn't known Indihar was married, I doubted if Mahmoud or
Jacques or any-body else knew either. Maybe Chiriga. Chiri always knew these things. "It
was a tragedy to the entire city," I said. I was staying noncommittal.
"It was a tragedy to our Indihar. She must be helpless with grief. And to have no money now,
that must make her situation even harder. I'm sorry that I suggested she work for me. That
was callous. I spoke quickly before I considered what I was saying."
"Indihar is a devout Muslim," I said coldly. "She's not about to turn tricks for you or for
anyone."
"I know that, Marid. No need for you to be so defen-sive on her behalf. But she's realized that
she can't sup-port all her children. You mentioned that she'd be willing to place one of them
in a good foster home, and perhaps earn enough that way to feed and clothe the others in a
proper manner."
I bated what I was doing. "You may not know it," I said, "but my own mother was forced to
sell my little brother when we were children."
"Now, now, Maghrebi," said Mahmoud, "don't think of it as 'selling.' No one's got the right to
sell a child. We can't continue this conversation if you maintain that atti-tude."
"Fine. Whatever you say. It's not selling; call it what-ever you want. The point is, have you
found someone who might be interested in adopting?"
Mahmoud paused. "Not exactly," he said at last. "But I know a man who frequently acts as
go-between, arrang-ing these matters. I've dealt with him before, and I can vouch for his
honesty and delicacy. You can see that these transactions require a great amount of
sympathy and tact."
"Sure," I said. "That's important. Indihar is in enough pain as it is."
"Exactly. That's why this man is so highly recom-mended. He's able to place a child in a
loving home imme-diately, and he's able to present the natural parent with a cash gift in such
a way as to prevent any guilt or recrimi-nations. It's just his way. I think Mr. On is the perfect
solution to Indihar's problem."
"Mr. On?"
"His name is On Cheung. He's a businessman from Kansu China. I've had the privilege of
acting as his agent before."
"Uh yeah." I squeezed my eyes shut and listened to the blood roaring in my head. "This is
leading us into the topic of money. How much will this Mr. On pay, and do you get a cut of
it?"
"For the elder son, five hundred kiam. For the
younger son, three hundred kiam. For the daughter, two hundred fifty. There are also
bonuses: an extra two hun-dred kiam for two children, and five hundred if Indihar
relinquishes all three. I, of course, take 10 percent. If you have arranged with her for a fee,
that must come from the remainder."
"Sounds fair enough. That's better than Indihar had hoped, to be truthful."
"I told you that Mr. On was a generous man."
"Now what? Do we meet somewhere or what?"
Mahmoud's voice was growing excited. "Of course, both Mr. On and I will need to examine
the children, to be sure they're fit and healthy. Can you have them at 7 Rafi ben Garcia
Street in half an hour?"
"Sure, Mahmoud. See you then. Tell On Cheung to bring his money." I hung up the phone.
"Kmuzu," I called, "forget about the laundry. We're going out."
"Yes, yaa Sidi. Shall I bring the car around?"
"Uh huh." I got up and threw a gallebeya over my jeans. Then I stuffed my static pistol in the
pocket. I didn't trust either Mahmoud or the baby seller.
The address was in the Jewish Quarter, and it turned out to be another storefront covered
wjth newspaper, very much like the place Shaknahyi and I had investi-gated in vain. "Stay
here," I told Kmuzu. Then I got out of the car and went to the front door. I rapped on the glass,
and after a little while Mahmoud opened the door an inch or two.
"Marid," he said in his husky voice. "Where's Indihar and the children?"
"I told 'em to stay in the car. I want to check this out
first. Let me in."      •'
"Sure." He swung the door wider, and I pushed past him. "Marid, this is Mr. On."
The baby seller was a small man with brown skin and brown teeth. He was sitting on a
battered metal folding chair at a card table. There was a metal box at his elbow. He looked
at me through a pair of wire-rimmed specta-cles. No Nikon eyes for him, either.
I stepped across the filthy floor and held out my hand to him. On Cheung peered up at me
and made no move to shake hands. After a few seconds, feeling like a fool, I dropped my
hand.
"Okay?" asked Mahmoud. "Satisfied?"
"Tell him to open the box," I said.
"I don't tell Mr. On to do anything," said Mahmoud. He's a very—"
"Everything okay," said On Cheung. "You look." He flipped open the top of the metal box.
There was a stack of bundred-kiam bills in there that could have bought every child in the
Budayeen.
"Great," I said. I reached into my pocket and brought out the pistol. "Hands on heads," I said.
"You son of a bitch," shouted Mahmoud. "What's this,
a robbery? You're not gonna get away with it. Mr. On will
make you sorry. That money's not going to do you a damn
t of good. You'll be dead before you spend a fiq of it."
"I'm still a cop, Mahmoud," I said sadly. I closed the metal box and handed it to him. I couldn't
carry it with my one good arm and still point the static pistol. "Hajjar's been looking for On
Cheung for a long time. Even a crooked cop like him has to bust somebody for real now and
then. I guess it's just your turn."
I led them out to the car. I kept the gun on them while Kmuzu drove to the station house. All
four of us went up to the third floor. Hajjar was startled as our little parade entered his
glass-walled office. "Lieutenant," I said, "this is On Cheung, the baby seller. Mahmoud, drop
the box of money. It's supposed to be evidence, but I don't expect anybody'11 ever see it
again after today."
"You never cease to amaze me," said Hajjar. He pushed a button on his desk, calling cops
from the outer
'This one's for free," I said. Hajjar looked puzzled. "I told you I still had two to go. That's Umm
Saad and Abu Adil. These stiffs are kind of a bonus."
"Right, thanks a lot. Mahmoud, you can go." The lieutenant looked up at me and shrugged
his shoulders. "You really think Papa'd let me hold him?" he said. I thought about that for a
moment and realized he was right.
Mahmoud looked relieved. "Won't forget this, Maghrebi," he muttered as he shoved by me.
His threat didn't worry me.
"By the way," I said, "I quit. You want anybody to file traffic reports or enter logbook records
from now on, you
get somebody else. You need somebody to waste his time on wild-goose chases, get
somebody else. You need help covering up your own crimes or incompetence, check with
somebody else. I don't work here anymore."
Hajjar smiled cynically. "Yeah, some cops react that way when they face real pressure. But I
thought you'd last longer, Audran."
I slapped him twice, quickly and loudly. He just stared at me, his own hand coming up slowly
to touch his stinging cheeks. I turned and walked out of the office, followed by Kmuzu. Cops
were coming from all around, and they'd seen what I'd done to Hajjar. Everybody was
grinning. Even me.
Kmuzu," I said as he drove the sedan back to the house, "would you invite Umm Saad to
have dinner iwith us?"
He looked across at me. He probably thought I was a complete fool, but he was great at
keeping his opinions to himself. "Of course, yaa Sidi," he said. "In the small din-ing room?"
"Uh huh." I watched the streets of the Christian Quarter go by, wondering if I knew what I was
doing.
"I hope you're not underestimating the woman," said Kmuzu.
"I don't think so. I think I've got a healthy regard for what she's capable of. I also think she's
basically sane. When I tell her I know about the Phoenix File, and about her reasons for
insinuating herself in our house, she'll real-ize the game is over."
Kmuzu tapped the steering wheel with his index fin-gers. "If you need help, yaa Sidi, I'll be
there. You won't have to face her alone, as you faced Shaykh Reda."
I smiled. "Thanks, Kmuzu, but I don't think Umm Saad is as loony or as powerful as Abu Adil.
She and I will just be sitting down to a meal. I intend to stay in control, inshallah."
Kmuzu gave me one more thoughtful glance, then turned his attention back to driving.
When we arrived at Friedlander Bey's mansion, I went upstairs and changed my clothes. I
put on a white robe and a white caftan, into which I transferred my static pistol. I also popped
the pain-blocking daddy. I didn't really need it all the time anymore, and I was carrying plenty
of sunnies just in case. I felt a flood of annoying aches and pains, all of which had been
blocked by the daddy. The worst of all was the throbbing discomfort in my shoulder. I
decided there was no point in suffering bravely, and I went right for my pillcase.
While I waited for Umm Saad's response to my invita-tion, I heard the sunset call to prayer
from Papa's muez-zin. Since my talk with the elder of the mosque in Souk el-Khemis Street,
I'd been worshiping more or less regu-larly. Maybe I didn't manage to hit all five daily
prayers, but I was doing decidedly better than ever before. Now I went downstairs to Papa's
office. He kept his prayer rug there, and he had a special mihrab built into one wall. The
mihrab is the shallow semicircular alcove you find in ev-ery mosque, indicating the precise
direction of Mecca. After I washed my face, hands, and feet, I unrolled the prayer mat,
cleared my mind of uncertainty, and ad-dressed myself to Allah.
When I'd finished praying, Kmuzu murmured, "Umm Saad waits for you in the small dining
room."
"Thank you." I rolled up Papa's prayer rug and put it away. I felt determined and strong. I
used to believe that this was a temporary illusion caused by worship, but now I thought that
doubt was the illusion. The assurance was real.
"It is good that you've regained your faith, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "Sometime you must let
me tell you of the miracle of Jesus Christ."
"Jesus is no stranger to Muslims," I replied, "and his miracles are no secret to the faith."
We went into the dining room, and I saw Umm Saad and her young son sitting in their
places. The boy hadn't been invited, but his presence wouldn't stop me from what I planned
to say. "Welcome," I said, "and may Allah make this meal wholesome to you."
"Thank you, O Shaykh," said Umm Saad. "How is your health?"
"Fine, all praise be to Allah." I sat down, and Kmuzu stood behind my chair. I noticed that
Habib had come into the room as well—-or maybe it was Labib, whichever of the Stones
wasn't guarding Papa in the hospital. Umm Saad and I exchanged more pleasantries until a
serving woman brought in a platter of tahini and salt fish.
"Your cook is excellent," said Umm Saad. "I have relished each meal here."
"I am pleased," I said. More appetizers were brought out: cold stuffed grape leaves, stewed
artichoke hearts, and eggplant slices stuffed with cream cheese. I indicated that my guests
should serve themselves.
Umm Saad piled generous portions of each dish on her son's plate. She looked back at me.
"May I pour coffee for you, O Shaykh?" she asked.
"In a moment," I said. "I'm sorry that Saad ben Salah is here to hear what I've got to say. It's
time to confront you with what I've learned, I know all about your work for Shaykh Reda, and
how you've attempted to murder Friedlander Bey. I know that you ordered your son to set the
fire, and I know about the poisoned stuffed dates."
Umm Saad's face went pale with horror. She had just taken a bite of a stuffed grape leaf,
and she spat it out and dropped the remainder on her plate. "What have you done?" she
said hoarsely.
I picked up another stuffed grape leaf and put it in my mouth. When I finished chewing, I said,
"I've done noth-ing as terrible as you're thinking."
Saad ben Salah stood up and moved toward me. His young face was twisted in an
expression of rage and hate. "By the beard of the Prophet," he said, "I won't allow you to
speak that way to my mother!"
"I only speak the truth," I said. "Isn't that so, Umm Saad?"
The boy glared at me. "My mother had nothing to do with the fire. That was my own idea. I
hate you, and I hate Friedlander Bey. He's my grandfather, yet he denies me. He leaves his
own daughter to suffer in poverty and mis-ery. He deserves to die."
I sipped some coffee calmly. "I don't believe it," I said. "It's commendable of you to shoulder
the blame, Saad, but it's your mother who's guilty, not you."
"You're a liar!" cried the woman.
The boy leaped toward me, but Kmuzu put himself between us. He was more than strong
enough to restrain Saad.
I turned again to Umm Saad. "What I don't under-stand," I said, "is why you've tried to kill
Papa. I don't see that his death would benefit you at all."
"Then you don't know as much as you think," she said. She seemed to relax a little. Her eyes
flicked from me
to Kmuzu, who still held her son in an unbreakable grip. "Shaykh Reda promised me that if I
discovered Fried-lander Bey's plans, or eliminated him so that Shaykh Reda would have no
further obstacle, he would back my claim to be mistress of this house. I would take over
Friedlander Bey's estate and his business ventures, and I would then turn over all matters of
political influence to Shaykh Reda."
"Sure," I said, "and all you'd have to do is trust Abu Adil. How long do you think you'd last
before he elimi-nated you the way you eliminated Papa? Then he could unite the two most
powerful houses in the city."
"You're just inventing stories!" She got to her feet, turning to look at Kmuzu again. "Let my
son go."
Kmuzu looked at me. I shook my head.
Umm Saad took a small needle gun from her bag. "I said, let my son go!"
"My lady," I said, holding up both hands to show that she had nothing to fear from me,
"you've failed. Put down the gun. If you go on, not even the resources of Shaykh Reda will
protect you from the vengeance of Friedlander Bey. I'm sure Abu Adil's interest in your
affairs has come to an end. At this point, you're only deluding yourself."
She fired two or three fleehettes into the ceiling to let me know she was willing to use the
weapon. "Release my boy," she said hoarsely. "Let us go."
"I don't know if I can do that," I said. "I'm sure Fried-lander Bey would want to—"
I heard a sound like thitt! thitt! and realized that Umm Saad had fired at me. I sucked in a
deep breath, waiting to feel the bite of pain that would tell me where I'd been wounded, but it
didn't happen. Her agitation had spoiled her aim even at this close range.
She swung the needle gun toward Kmuzu, who re-mained motionless, still shielded by
Saad's body. Then she turned back toward me. In the meantime, however, the Stone That
Speaks had crossed the few feet between us. He raised one hand and chopped down on
Umm Saad's wrist, and she dropped the needle gun. Then the Stone raised his other hand,
clenched into a huge fist.
"No," I shouted, but it was too late to stop him. With a
Sowerful backhand clout, he knocked Umm Saad to the oor. I saw a bright trail of blood on
her face below her split lip. She lay on her back with her head twisted at a grotesque angle. I
knew the Stone had killed her with one Wow. "That's two," I whispered. Now I could give my
complete attention to Abu Adil. And Umar, the old man's deluded plaything.
"Son of a dog!" screamed the boy. He struggled a moment, and then Kmuzu permitted him
to go to her. He bent and cradled his mother's corpse. "O Mother, Mother," he murmured,
weeping.
Kmuzu and I let him mourn her for a short while. "Saad, get up," I said finally.
He looked up at me. I don't think I've ever seen so much malignity in a person's face. "I'll kill
you," he said. "I promise you that. All of you."
"Get up, Saad," I said. I wished this hadn't happened, but it was too late for regrets.
Kmuzu put his hand on Saad's shoulder, but the boy shrugged it off. "You must listen to my
master," said Kmuzu.
"No," said Saad. Then his hand flashed out quickly for his mother's needle gun. The Stone
stamped down on the boy's forearm. Saad collapsed beside his mother, holding his arm
and whimpering.
Kmuzu knelt and took the needle gun. He stood up again and gave the weapon to me.
"What do you wish to do, yaa Sidi?" he asked.
"About the boy?" I looked at Saad thoughtfully. I knew that he bore me nothing but malice,
but I only pitied him. He had been only a pawn in his mother's bargain with Abu Adil, a dupe
in her vicious scheme to usurp Friedlander Bey's power. I didn't expect that Saad could
understand that, of course. To him, Umm Saad would always be a martyr and a victim of
cruel injustice.
"What is to be done?" Kmuzu said, breaking in on my thoughts.
"Oh, just let him go. He's certainly suffered enough." Kmuzu stood aside, and Saad got to
his feet, holding his bruised forearm close to his chest. "I'll make all the proper preparations
for your mother's funeral," I said.
Once again, his expression twisted in loathing. "You will not touch her!" he cried. "I will bury
my mother." He backed away from me and stumbled toward the door. When he reached the
exit, he turned to face me. "If there
are such things as curses in this world," he uttered in a feverish voice, "I call them all down
on you and your house. I will make you pay a hundred times for what you've done. I swear
this three times, on the life of the Prophet Muhammad!" Then he fled the dining room.
"You have made a bitter enemy, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.
"I know," I said, "but I can't worry about it." I just shook my head sadly.
A telephone on the sideboard warbled, and the Stone answered it. "Yes?" he said. He
listened for a moment, then held it out to me.
I took it from him. "Hello?" I said.
There was just one word from the caller, "Come." It had been the other Stone.
I felt chilled. "We've got to get to the hospital," I said. I glanced down at Umm Saad's body,
undecided what to do.
Kmuzu understood my problem. "Youssef can make the arrangements, yaa Sidi, if that's
what you wish."
"Yes," I said. "I may need both of you."
Kmuzu nodded, and we left the dining room with Labib or Habib right behind me. We went
outside, and Kmuzu drove the sedan around to the front of the house. I got in the back. I
thought the Stone would have an easier time cramming himself into the passenger seat.
Kmuzu raced through the streets almost as wildly as Bill the taxi driver. We arrived at Suite
One just as a male nurse was leaving Papa's room.
"How is Friedlander Bey?" I asked fearfully.
"He's still alive," said the nurse. "He's conscious, but you can't stay long. He's going into
surgery shortly. The doctor is with him now."
"Thank you," I said. I turned to Kmuzu and the Stone. "Wait outside."
"Yes, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. The Stone didn't even grunt. He just cast a quick, hostile
glance at Kmuzu.
I went into the suite. I saw another male nurse shav-ing Papa's skull, evidently prepping it for
surgery. Tariq, his valet, stood by looking very worried. Dr. Yeniknani and another doctor sat
at the card table, discussing some-thing in low voices. "Praise God you're here," said the
valet. "Our master has been asking for you."
"What is it, Tariq?" I asked.
He frowned. He looked almost on the point of tears. "I don't understand. The doctors can
explain. But now you must let our master know that you're here."
I went to Papa's bedside and looked down at him. He seemed to be dozing, his breath light
and fluttery. His skin was an unhealthy gray color, and his lips and eyelids were unnaturally
dark. The nurse finished shaving his head, and that just accentuated Papa's bizarre,
deathlike ap-pearance.
He opened his eyes as I stood there. "You have made us lonely, my nephew," he said. His
voice was faint, like words carried on the wind.
"May God never make you lonely, O Shaykh," I said. I bent and kissed him on the cheek.
"You must tell me," he began. His breath wheezed and he couldn't finish his sentence.
"All goes well, praise Allah," I said. "Umm Saad is no more. I have yet to instruct Abu Adil on
the folly of plot-ting against you."
The corners of his mouth quirked. "You will be re-warded. How did you defeat the woman?"
I wished he would stop thinking in terms of debts and rewards. "I have a personality module
of Shaykh Reda," I said. "When I chipped it in, I learned many things that have been useful."
He caught his breath and looked unhappy. "Then you know—"
"I know of the Phoenix File, O Shaykh. I know that you protect that evil thing in cooperation
with Abu Adil."
"Yes. And you know also that I am your mother's grandfather. That you are my
great-grandson. But do you understand why we kept that knowledge a secret?"
Well, no, I hadn't known that until just that moment, although if I'd been wearing Abu Adil's
moddy and stopped to think about myself or my mother, the informa-tion might have popped
into my consciousness.
So all that stuff about Papa possibly being my father was just Mom being cute and clever. I
guess she'd known the truth all along. And that's why Papa'd been so upset when I'd kicked
her out of the house when she first came to the city. That's why Umm Saad had caused him
so much grief: Because everybody but me understood that she was trying to squeeze out
the natural heirs, with Abu Adil's assistance. And Umm Saad was using the Phoenix File to
blackmail Papa. Now I saw why he allowed her to remain in the house so long, and why he
preferred that I dispose of her.
And ever since Friedlander Bey's divine finger first descended from the clouds to tap me so
long ago, I'd been aimed toward lofty ends. Had I been cut out to be merely Papa's
indispensable, reluctant assistant? Or had I been groomed all along to inherit the power and
the wealth, every bit of it, along with the terrible life-and-death deci-sions Papa made every
day?
How naive I'd been, to think that I might find a way to escape! I was more than just under
Friedlander Bey's thumb; he owned me, and his indelible mark was written in my genetic
material. My shoulders sagged as I realized that I would never be free, and that any hope of
liberty had always been empty illusion.
"Why did you and my mother keep this secret from me?" I asked.
"You are not alone, my . . . son. As a young man, I fathered many children. When my own
eldest son died, he was older than you are now, and he has been dead more than a century.
I have dozens of grandchildren, one of whom is your mother. In your generation, I do not
know how many descendants I can claim. It would not have been appropriate for you to feel
unique, to use your relationship with me to further selfish ends. I needed to be sure that you
were worthy, before I acknowledged you as my chosen one."
I wasn't as thrilled by that speech as he probably thought I should be. He sounded like a
lunatic pretending to be God, passing on his blessing like a birthday present. Papa didn't
want me to use my connection for selfish ends! Jeez, if that wasn't the height of irony!
"Yes, O Shaykh," I said. It didn't cost me anything to sound docile. Hell, he was going to have
his skull carved in a few minutes. Still, I made no promises.
"Remember," he said softly, "there are many others who would take away your privileged
position. You have scores of cousins who may someday do you harm."
Great. Something else to look forward to. "Then the computer records I searched—"
"Have been changed and changed again many times over the years." He smiled faintly.
"You must learn not to put your faith in truth that has only electronic existence. Is it not our
business, after all, to supply versions of that truth to the nations of the world? Have you not
learned how supple truth can be?"
More questions occurred to me every second. "Then my father was truly Bernard Audran?"
"The Provengal sailor, yes."
I was relieved that I knew one thing for certain.
"Forgive my, my darling," murmured Papa. "I did not wish to reveal the Phoenix File to you,
and that made it more difficult for you to deal with Umm Saad and Abu Adil."
I held his hand; it trembled in my grasp. "Don't worry, O Shaykh. It's almost over."
"Mr. Audran." I felt Dr. Yeniknani's large-knuckled hand on my shoulder. "We'll be taking your
patron down to surgery now."
"What's wrong? What are you going to do?"
It was obvious that there wasn't time to go into a long explanation. "You were right about the
tainted dates. Someone had been feeding him the poison for some time. It has severely
impaired his medulla, the part of the brain that controls respiration, heartbeat, and
wakefulness. It's been damaged to such an extent that, unless something is done very soon,
he will fall into an irreversible coma."
My mouth was dry, and my heart was racing. "What are you going to do?" I asked.
Dr. Yeniknani looked down at his hands. "Dr. Lisan believes the only hope is a partial
medullar transplant. We have been waiting for healthy tissue from a compatible donor."
"And today you've found it?" I wondered who on that goddamn Phoenix File had been
sacrificed for this.
"I can't promise success, Mr. Audran. The operation has only been tried three or four times
before, and never in this part of the world. But you must know that if any surgeon can offer
you hope, it's Dr. Lisan. And of course, I will be attending. Your patron will have all the skill at
our disposal, and all the prayers of his faithful friends."
I nodded dumbly. I looked up to see two male nurses lifting Friedlander Bey from his hospital
bed onto a wheeled cart. I went to grasp his hand once more.
"Two things," he said in a husky whisper. "You have moved the policeman's widow into our
home. When the four months of proper mourning are over, you must marry her."
"Marry her!" I was so startled, I forgot to be properly respectful.
"And when I recover from this illness—" He yawned, almost unable to keep his eyes open
against the medica-tion the nurses had given him. I lowered my head to catch his words.
"When I am again well, we will go to Mecca."
That wasn't what I expected, either. I guess I groaned. "Mecca," I said.
"The pilgrimage." He opened his eyes. He looked frightened, not of the surgery but of his
unfulfilled obliga-tion to Allah. "It is past time," he said, and then they wheeled him away.
I decided the wise thing was to wait until my arm was unwrapped before I faced down Abu
Adil. After all, the great Salah ad-Din didn't reconquer Jerusalem and drive out the Franj
Crusaders by riding down into battle with half his army. Not that I planned to get into a
fistfight with Shaykh Reda or Umar, but I'd taken enough nicks and scrapes lately to learn a
little prudence.
Things had quieted down considerably. For a time, we worried and prayed to Allah for
Friedlander Bey's recovery. He'd survived the surgery and Dr. Lisan had pronounced it a
success; but Papa slept almost around the clock, day after day. He roused occasionally and
talked with us, although he was terribly confused abont who we all were and what century it
was.
With Umm Saad and her son gone, the atmosphere in the house was more cheerful. I
concerned myself with Papa's business matters, acting in his place to settle dis-putes
among the city's caterers of the ungodly. I let Mahmoud know that I would be tough but fair as
Friedlander Bey's deputy, and he seemed to accept that. At least, he dropped his
resentment. That may have been just an act. You can never accurately read Mahmoud.
I also had to handle a major foreign crisis, when the new tyrant of Eritrea came to me
demanding to know what was going on in his own country. I took care of that mess, thanks to
Papa's impeccable record keeping and Tariq and Youssef's knowledge of where everything
was.
My mother continued to alternate between modestly mature and brazenly foolish.
Sometimes when we talked, we were sorry for the way we'd punished each other in the past.
Other times, we wanted to slit each other's throats. Kmuzu told me that this kind of
relationship is not
unusual between parent and child, particularly after both have reached a certain age. I
accepted that, and I didn't worry about it anymore.
Chiriga's continued to make lots of money, and both Chiri and I were satisfied. I guess she
would've been more satisfied if I'd sold the club back to her, but I enjoyed owning it too
much. I decided to hang on to it a little while longer, the way I decided to hang on to Kmuzu.
When the muezzin's call to prayer came, I answered it a large percentage of the time, and
went to the mosque on a Friday or two. I was becoming known as a kind and generous man,
not just in the Budayeen but all through the city. Wherever I went, people called me Shaykh
Marid al-Amin. I didn't completely stop taking drugs, however, because I was still injured and
I saw no reason to take the chance of enduring unnecessary agony.
All in all, the month after I'd kissed off the police department was a welcome experiment with
peace and quiet. It all came to an end one Tuesday, just before lunch, when I answered the
phone. "Marhaba," I said.
"Praise be to God. This is Umar Abdul-Qawy."
I didn't say anything for a few seconds. "The hell do you want?" I said.
"My master is concerned for the health of Fried-lander Bey. I'm calling to inquire as to his
condition."
I was coming to a quick boil. I didn't really know what to say to Umar. "He's fine. He's
resting."
"Then he's able to take care of his duties?" There was a smugness in his voice that I hated a
lot.
"I said he's fine, all right? Now, I got work to do."
"Just a second, Monsieur Audran." And then his voice got positively sanctimonious. "We
believe you may have something that properly belongs to Shaykh Reda."
I knew what he was talking about, and it made me smile. I liked being the screwer rather
than the screwee. "I don't know what you mean, Himmar." I don't know, something made me
say it. I knew it would pluck his beard.
"The moddy," he said. "The goddman moddy."
I paused to savor what I heard in his voice. "Well, hell," I said, "you got it all wrong. As I
recall, you have the goddamn moddy. Remember? Himmar? You cuffed my hands behind
my back, and then you beat me bloody, and then you jacked me into a moddy link and read
off my brain. You guys done with it yet?"
There was silence. I think Umar hoped I wouldn't remember that moddy. That's not what he
wanted to talk about. I didn't care, I had the floor. "How's it work, you son of a bitch?" I said.
"You wear my brain while that sick bastard jams you? Or the other way around? How am I,
Umar? Any competition for Honey Pilar?"
I heard him trying to get himself under control. "Per-haps we could arrange an exchange," he
said at last. "Shaykh Reda truly wishes to make amends. He wants his personality module
returned. I'm sure he would agree to give you the recording we made of you plus a suitable
cash settlement."
"Cash," I said. "How much?"
"I can't say for certain, but I'm sure Shaykh Reda would be very generous. He realizes that
he's put you through a great deal of discomfort."
"Yeah, you right. But business is business, and action is action. How much?"
"Ten thousand kiam," said Umar.
I knew that if I balked, he'd name a higher figure; but I wasn't interested in their money. "Ten
thousand?" I said, trying to sound impressed.
"Yes." Umar's voice got smug again. He was going to pay for that. "Shall we meet here, in
an hour? Shaykh Reda instructed me to say that our staff is preparing a special midday
meal in your honor. We hope you'll let our past differences go, Shaykh Marid. Shaykh Reda
and Friedlander Bey must join together now. You and I must be partners in harmony. Don't
you agree?"
"I do testify that there is no god but Allah," I declared solemnly.
"By the Lord of the Kaaba," swore Umar, "this will be a memorable day for both our
houses."
I hung up the phone. "Damn straight about that," I said. I sat back in my chair. I didn't know
who would have the upper hand when the afternoon was over, but the days of the false
peace had come to an end.
I'm not a total fool, so I didn't go to Abu Adil's palace alone. I took one of the Stones That
Speak with me, as well as Kmuzu and Saied. Now, the latter two had been ex-ploited by
Shaykh Reda, and they both felt they had scores
to settle with him. When I asked if they'd like to join me in my devious charade, they eagerly
agreed.
"I want a chance to make up for selling you out to Shaykh Reda," said the Half-Hajj.
I was checking my two weapons, and I looked up. "But you've already done that. When you
pulled me out of that alley."
"Nan," he said, "I still feel like I owe you at least one more."
"You have an Arabic proverb," said Kmuzu thought-fully. " 'When he promised, he fulfilled his
promise. When he threatened, he did not fulfill his threat, but he forgave.' It is equivalent to
the Christian idea of turning the other cheek."
"That's right," I said. "But people who live their lives by proverbs waste their time doing lots
of stupid things. 'Getting even is the best revenge' is my motto."
"I wasn't counseling retreat, yaa Sidi. I was only mak-ing a philological observation."
Saied gave Kmuzu an irritated look. "And this big bald guy is something else you got to pay
back Abu Adil for," he said.
The ride out to Abu Adil's palace in Hamidiyya was strangely pleasant. We laughed and
talked as if we were on some enjoyable picnic or outing. I didn't feel afraid, even though I
wasn't wearing a moddy or any daddies. Saied talked almost nonstop in the scatterbrained
way that had given him his nickname. Kmuzu kept his eyes straight ahead as he drove, but
even he put in a light-hearted comment now and then. Habib or Labib—which-ever he
was—sat beside Saied in the backseat and did his silent sandstone giant routine.
Abu Adil's guard passed us immediately through the gate, and we drove up through the
beautifully landscaped grounds. "Let's wait a minute," I said, as Kamal, the but-ler, opened
the house's massive, carved front door. I checked my static pistol again and passed the
small seizure gun to the Half-Hajj; Kmuzu had the needle gun that had formerly belonged to
Umm Saad. The Stone didn't need any weapon beyond his own bare hands.
I clucked my tongue impatiently. "What is it, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.
"I'm deciding what to wear." I browsed through myrack of moddies and daddies. I finally
decided that I'd wear Rex and carry the Abu Adil moddy. I also chipped in the daddies that
blocked pain and fear.
"When this is over," Saied said wistfully, "can I have Rex back? I really miss wearing him."
"Sure," I said, even though I enjoyed wearing the badass moddy myself. Saied just wasn't
the same without it. For now, I let him have the anthology. I was hoping to see Mike Hammer
put his fist in Abu Adil's face.
"We must be careful," said Kmuzu. "We cannot be hilled, because treachery runs in Shaykh
Reda's blood like the bilharzia worm."
"Thanks," I said, "but I'm not likely to forget it."
Then the four of us got out of the car and walked up the ceramic-tiled path to the door. It was
a warm, pleasant day, and the sun felt good on my face. I was dressed in a white gallebeya
and my head was covered with a knitted Algerian skullcap. It was a simple costume, and it
made me look humble.
We followed Kamal to a meeting room on the second floor. I felt myself tense as we passed
Abu Adil's recording studio. I took a few deep breaths, and by the time the butler bowed us
into his master's presence, I was relaxed again.
Abu Adil and Umar were sitting on large pillows spread in a semicircle in the center of the
room. There was a raised platform in the midst of the arrangement, and already several
large bowls of food had been set there, along with pots of coffee and tea.
Our hosts rose to greet us. I noticed immediately that neither of them had any hardware
chipped in. Abu Adil came to me, smiling broadly. He embraced me and said, "Ahlan wa
sahlan!"in a cheerful voice. "Welcome, and be refreshed!"
"I am glad to see you again, O Shaykh. May Allah open His ways to you."
Abu Adil was happy to see how subdued I was behav-ing. He wasn't happy, however, that I'd
brought Kmuzu, Saied, and the Stone. "Come, rinse the dust from your hands," he said. "Let
me pour water for you. Of course, your slaves are welcome too."
"Watch it, chum," growled Saied, wearing the Mike Hammer moddy. "I'm no slave."
"Exactly, of course," said Abu Adil, never losing his good humor.
We made ourselves comfortable on the cushions and exchanged still more of the obligatory
compliments. Umar poured me a cup of coffee, and I said, "May your table last forever."
"May God lengthen your life," said Umar. He wasn't nearly so happy as his boss.
We sampled the food and chatted amiably for a while. The only sour note was struck by the
Half-Hajj, who spat out an olive pit and said, "This all you got?" Shaykh Reda's face froze. I
had a hard time not laughing out loud.
"Now," said Abu Adil after a proper amount of time had passed, "will you object if I bring up
the matter of business?"
"No, O Shaykh," I said, "I am eager to conclude this matter."
"Then give me the personality module you took from this house." Umar handed him a small
vinyl satchel, which Abu Adil opened. There were banded stacks of fresh ten-kiam bills in it.
"I ask something more in trade," I said.
Umar's face darkened. "You are a fool if you think you can change our bargain now. The
agreement was ten thousand kiam."
I ignored him. I turned to Abu Adil. "I want you to destroy the Phoenix File."
Abu Adil laughed delightedly. "Ah, you are a remark-able man. But I know that from wearing
this." He held up the moddy he'd made the day he'd mind-raped me. "The Phoenix File is
life to me. Because of it, I have lived to this advanced age. I will no doubt need it again. With
the file, I may live another hundred years."
"I'm sorry, Shaykh Reda," I said, taking out my static pistol, "but I'm very determined." I
glanced at my friends. They too held their weapons on Abu Adil and Umar.
"No more of this foolishness," said Umar. "You came here to exchange moddies. Let's
complete the transac-tion, and then whatever happens in the future is in the hands of Allah."
I kept my gun pointed at Abu Adil, but I took a sip from my cup of coffee. "The refreshments
are most excel-
lent, O Shaykh," I said. I set my cup down again. "I want you to destroy the Phoenix File. I've
worn your moddy, I know where it is. Kmuzu and Saied can hold you here while I go get it."
Abu Adil didn't seem the least bit upset. "You're bluff-ing," he said, spreading his hands. "If
you've worn my moddy, then you know that I have copies. The moddy will tell you where one
or two duplicate files are, but Umar has still others, and you won't learn where they are."
"Hell," said the Half-Hajj, "I bet I can make him talk."
"Never mind, Saied," I said. I realized that Abu Adil was right; we were at an impasse.
Destroying a bubble plate here and a printout there would accomplish noth-ing. I couldn't
destroy the concept of the Phoenix File, and at this point Abu Adil would never agree to
abandon it.
Kmuzu leaned nearer. "You must persuade him to give it up, yaa Sidi."
"Any ideas?"
"Unfortunately, no."
I had one last trump to play, but I hated to use it. If it failed, Abu Adil would win, and I'd never
be able to pro-tect myself or Friedlander Bey's interests against him. Still, there was no
other choice. "Shaykh Reda," I said slowly, "there are many other things recorded on your
moddy. I learned astonishing things about what you've done and what you plan to do."
Abu Adil's expression grew worried for the first time. "What are you talking about?" he
asked.
I tried to look unconcerned. "You know, of course, that the strict religious leaders disapprove
of brain im-plants. I couldn't find an imam who'd had one, so none of them could chip in your
moddy and experience it di-rectly. But I did speak with Shaykh Al-Hajj Muhammad ibn
Abdurrahman, who leads prayers at the Shimaal Mosque."
Abu Adil stared at me, his eyes wide. The Shimaal Mosque was the largest and most
powerful congregation in the city. The pronouncements of its clergy often had the force of
law.
I was bluffing, of course. I'd never set foot inside the Shimaal Mosque. And I'd just invented
that imam's name.
Shaykh Reda's voice faltered. "What did you discuss with him?"
I grinned. "Why, I gave him a detailed description of all your past sins and your intended
crimes. Now, there's a fascinating technical point that hasn't been cleared up yet. I mean, the
religious elders haven't ruled on whether or not a personality module recorded from a living
person is admissible as evidence in a court of Islamic law. You know and I know that such a
moddy is wholly reliable, much more so than any sort of mechanical lie detector. But the
imams, bless their righteous hearts, are debating the matter back and forth. It may be a long
while before they pass a ruling, but then again, you may already be in very serious trouble."
I paused to let what I'd said sink in. I'd just made up this religious-legal wrangle on the fly, but
it was entirely plausible. It was a question that Islam would have to come to grips with, just as
the faith had had to deal with every other technological advance. It was only a matter of
judg-ing how the science of neuroaugmentation related to the teachings of Prophet
Muhammad, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace.
Abu Adil moved restlessly on his cushion. He was obviously wrestling with two unpleasant
options: destroy-ing the Phoenix File, or being turned over to the notori-ously unforgiving
representatives of the Messenger of God. Finally, he gave a great sigh. "Hear my decision,"
he said. "I offer you Umar Abdul-Qawy in my place."
I laughed. There was a horrified squeal from Umar. "The hell do we want with him?" asked
the Half-Hajj.
"I'm sure you learned from the moddy that Umar originated many of my less honorable
business practices," said Abu Adil. "His guilt is nearly as great as my own. I, however, have
power and influence. Maybe not enough to hold off the wrath of the city's entire Islamic
community, but certainly enough to deflect it."
I appeared to consider this point. "Yes," I said slowly, "it would be very difficult to convict
you."
"But not difficult at all to convict Umar." Shaykh Reda looked at his assistant. "I'm sorry, my
boy, but you've brought this on yourself. I know all about your shabby plottings. When I wore
Shaykh Marid's moddy, didn't I find out about your conversation with him? The one in which
he turned down your invitation to dispose of me and Friedlander Bey?"
Umar's face had gone deathly pale. "But I never in-tended—"
Abu Adil did not seem angry, only very sad. "Did you think you were the first to have that
notion? Where are your predecessors, Umar? Where are all the ambitious young men
who've held your position that last century and a half? Almost every one of them plotted
against me, sooner or later. And they are all gone now and forgotten. Just as you will be."
"Face it, Himmar," taunted Saied, "you have to wear the shirt you sewed. Paybacks are a
bitch, ain't they?"
Abu Adil shook his head. "I will be sorry to lose you, Umar. I couldn't have cared for you
more if I'd been your true father."
I was amused, and glad that events were turning out as I planned. A line of American fiction
occurred to me : "If you lose a son it's possible to get another—but there's only one Maltese
falcon."
Umar, though, had other ideas. He jumped up and screamed at Abu Adil. "I'll see you dead
first! All of you!"
Saied fired the seizure gun before Umar even drew his own weapon. Umar collapsed to the
floor, writhing in convulsions, his face twisted in an ugly grimace. At last, he was still. He'd be
unconscious for a few hours but he'd recover, and he'd feel like hell for a long time afterward.
"Well," said the Half-Hajj, "he folds up real nice."
Abu Adil let out a sigh. "This is not how I intended for this afternoon to go."
"Really?" I said.
"I must admit, I've underestimated you. Do you wish to take him with you?"
I didn't really want to be saddled with Umar because, after all, I hadn't actually spoken to the
imam. "No," I said, "I think I'll leave him in your hands."
"You can be assured there will be justice," said Shaykh Reda. The look he turned on his
scheming assis-tant was chilling. I was almost sorry for Umar.
"Justice," I said, using an old Arab saying, "is that you should restore things to their places. I
would like my moddy now."
“Yes, of course." He leaned across the still form of Umar Abdul-Qawy and put the moddy in
my hand. "And take the money," he said.
"No, I don't think so," I said. "But I'll keep the moddy I have of you. To guarantee your
cooperation."
"If you must," he said unhappily. "You understand that I have not agreed to abandon the
Phoenix File."
"I understand." Then I was struck by a sudden thought. "I have one last request, however."
"Yes?" He looked suspicious.
"I wish to have my name removed from the file, and the names of my friends and relatives."
"Of course," said Abu Adil, glad that my last demand was so easy to fulfill. "I would be
pleased to oblige. Merely send me a complete list at your convenience."
Later, as we walked back to the car, Kmuzu and Saied congratulated me. "That was a
complete victory," said the Half-Hajj.
"No," I said, "I wish it were. Abu Adil and Papa still have that goddamn Phoenix File, even if
some of our names will be taken off. I feel like I'm trading the lives of my friends for the lives
of other innocent people. I told Shaykh Reda, 'Go ahead, kill those other guys, I don't care.'"
"You accomplished as much as was possible, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "You should be
grateful to God."
"I suppose." I popped Rex and gave the moddy to Saied, who grinned to have it back. We
rode back to the house; Kmuzu and Saied discussed what had happened at great length,
but I just rode in silence, wrapped in gloomy thoughts. For some reason, I felt like a failure. I
felt as if I'd made an evil compromise. I also felt uncomfortably sure that it wouldn't be my
last.
Late that night, I was awakened by someone opening the door to my bedroom. I lifted my
head and saw a woman enter, dressed in a short, clinging negligee.
The woman lifted the covers and slipped into bed beside me. She put one hand on my
cheek and kissed me. It was a great kiss. I woke up completely. "I bribed Kmuzu to let me
in," she whispered. I was surprised to realize it was Indihar.
"Yeah? How do you bribe Kmuzu?"
"I told him I'd take your mind off your pain."
"He knows I got pills and software to do that." I rolled over on my side to face her. "Indihar,
what are you doing here?" I asked. "You said you weren't going to sleep with me."
"Well, I changed my mind," she said. She didn't sound very enthusiastic. "Here I am. I've
been thinking about how I acted when . . . after Jirji died."
"May the mercy of Allah be on him," I murmured. I put my arm around her. Despite her
attempt to be brave, I could feel warm tears on her face.
"You've done a lot for me, and for the kids."
Yipe. "That's why you're here? Because you're grate-ful?"
"Well," she said, "yes. I'm in your debt."
"You don't love me, do you, Indihar?"
"Marid," she said, "don't get me wrong. I like you, but—"
"But that's all there is. Listen, I really don't think being here together is a great idea. You told
me you weren't going to sleep with me, and I respected that."
"Papa wants us to be married," she said. Her voice took on an angry edge.
"He thinks it shames his house for us to be living together otherwise. Even if we aren't, you
know, sleeping together."
"Even though my children need a father, and they like you, I won't marry you, Marid. I don't
care what Papa says."
Actually, marriage was something I thought hap-pened only to other people, like fatal traffic
accidents. I still felt an obligation to take care of Shaknahyi's widow and children, and if I had
to marry someone, I could do worse than Indihar. But still . . .
"I think Papa may forget all about it by the time he gets out of the hospital."
"Just so you understand," said Indihar. She gave me another kiss—this one chastely on the
cheek—and then she quietly got out of my bed and went back to her own room.
I felt like such a noble son of a bitch. I'd made her feel better, but deep down I had no
confidence at all that Friedlander Bey would forget his decree. All I could think about was
Yasmin, and if she'd still go out with me after I was married to Indihar.
I couldn't get back to sleep. I just turned from one side to the other, twisting the sheets up
into a tangled mess. Finally I gave up and got out of bed and went into the study. I sat in the
comfortable leather armchair and picked up the Wise Counselor moddy. I looked at it for a
few seconds, wondering if it could possibly make sense out of recent events. "Bismillah," I
murmured. Then I reached up and chipped it in.
Audran seemed to be in a deserted city. He wandered through narrow, congested
alleys—hungry, thirsty, and very tired. After a while he turned a corner and came into a great
market square. The booths and stalls were de-serted, empty of merchandise. Still, Audran
recognized where he was. He was back in Algeria. "Hello?" he shouted. There was no
answer. He remembered an old saying: "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, "The
friends of my youth, where are they?' An echo answered, 'Where are they?'
He began to weep with sadness. Then a man spoke, and Audran turned. He recognized the
man as the Mes-senger of God. "Shaykh Marid," said the Prophet, may blessings be on him
and peace, "don't you consider me the friend of your youth?"
And Audran smiled. "Yaa Hazrat, does not everyone in the world desire your friendship? But
my love for Allah so completely fills my heart that there is no room there for love or hate for
anyone."
"If that is true, "said Prophet Muhammad, "then you are blessed. Remember, though, that
this verse was re-vealed: 'Thou shalt never reach the broad door of piety until thou givest
away what thou lovest best.' What do you love best, O Shaykh?"
I awoke, but this time I didn't have Jirji Shaknahyi to explain the vision. I wondered what the
answer to the Prophet's question might be: comfort, pleasure, freedom? I hated the idea of
giving up any of those, but I might as well get used to the idea. My life with Friedlander Bey
rarely entailed the notions of ease or liberty.
But my life needn't begin again until morning. In the meantime, I had the problem of getting
through the night. I went to search for my pillcase.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George Alec Effinger's stories and novels have made his name significant in the science
fiction field for nearly twenty years. "Wry and black and savage . . . there's a knife behind
every smile," is George R. R. Martin's char-acterization of Effinger's fiction. Widely praised,
his work has often appeared on major award ballots, and his name is a regular fixture on the
contents pages of magazines. He lives with his cat in New Orleans, LA.