“She turned up dead yesterday. They say they found her body all drained of blood, and she had two small puncture marks on her neck. It looks like some kind of vampire jumped on her or something.” Pualani shuddered.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my throbbing temples. “There are no such things as vampires,” I said. “There are no afrits, no djinn, no werewolves, no succubae, and no trolls. There has to be some other explanation for Vi.” I recognized the woman’s name, but I couldn’t picture her face.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, a murderer with an elaborate scheme to throw suspicion on a supernatural suspect, maybe.”
“I don’t think so,” Pualani said. “I mean, everything just fits.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
Pualani went into the back to change into her working outfit. I reached over the bar and filled a tall glass with ice, then poured myself a carbonated soft drink.
Chiriga, my partner, arrived not long after. She owned half the club and acted as daytime barmaid. I was glad to see her because it meant that I didn’t have to watch the place anymore. I rested my head on my arms and let the hangover headache do its throbbing worst.
Nothing felt fatal until someone shook my shoulder. I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away. I sat up and saw Yasmin, one of the dancers. She was brushing her glistening black hair. “You hear about Vi?” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You know I warned Vi about staying out of that alley. She used to go home that way every night. That’s what she gets for working at the Old Chicago and going home that way. I must’ve told her a dozen times.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “Yasmin, the poor girl didn’t deserve to die just because she walked home through an alley.”
Yasmin cocked her head to one side and looked at me. “Yeah, I know, but still. You hear they think it was Sheba who killed her?”
That was news to me. “Sheba?” I asked. “She worked here maybe eight or nine months ago? That Sheba?”
Yasmin nodded. “She’s over by Fatima and Nassir’s these days, and she belongs there.”
Chiri wiped the bar beside me and tossed a coaster in front of Yasmin. “Why do you think it was Sheba who killed crazy Vi?” Chiri asked.
‘Cause,” Yasmin said in a loud whisper. “Vi was killed by a vampire, right? And you never see Sheba in the daytime. Never. Have you? Think about it. Let me have some peppermint schnapps, Chiri.”
I glanced at Chiri, but she only shrugged. I turned back to Yasmin. “First everybody’s sure Vi was killed by a vampire, and now you’re sure that the vampire is Sheba.”
Yasmin raised both hands and tried to look innocent. “I’m not making any of this up,” she said. She scooped up her peppermint schnapps and went to sit beside Pualani. No customers had come in yet.
“Well,” I said to Chiri, “what do you think?”
Chiri’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t think anything. Do I have to?” Chiri’s the only person in the Budayeen with any sense. And that includes me.
The afternoon passed slowly. The other three dancers, Lily, Kitty, and Baby, came in when they felt like it. We made a little money, sold a few drinks, the girls hustled some champagne cocktails. I listened to the same damn Sikh propaganda songs on the holo system and watched my employees parade their talents.
It was getting on toward dinnertime when Lily and Yasmin got into an argument with two poor European marks. I strolled over toward their table, not because I care anything for marks—I generally don’t—but because a bad enough argument might send the two guys out into the Street and into somebody else’s club.
“Marîd, listen—” Lily said.
I held up a hand, interrupting her. “Are you two gentlemen enjoying yourselves?” I asked.
They had puzzled looks on their faces, but they nodded. Some people are born marks, others achieve markdom, and some people have markdom thrust upon them.
“What’s the problem?” I said in a warning voice. “I can hear you all the way across the bar.”
“We were talking about Vi,” Lily said. “We were warning Lazaro and Karoly to stay out of that alley.”
“We were going to suggest a nice, safe place where we could go,” Yasmin said. She tried to look innocent again. Yasmin hasn’t been innocent since her baby teeth fell out.
“Look, you two,” I said, meaning my two fun-loving hustlers, “let me clear this up right now. I’ll call the morgue and find out what they know about crazy Vi.”
“You’re gonna call the morgue?” Lily said. She was suddenly very interested.
“Get back to work,” I said. I went back to my seat at the bar. I unclipped the phone from my belt and murmured the commcode of the Budayeen’s morgue. The medical examiner there, Dr. Besharati, had helped me with a couple of other matters over the years. He was normal enough for a guy who worked surrounded by dead bodies all day. He liked to tootle a jazz trumpet in between autopsies. That was his kick.
I got one of his assistants. The coroner was busy putting brains into jars or something. “Yeah? Medical examiner’s office.”
“I wanted to get some information about one of the, ah, deceased currently in your custody.”
“You a family member?”
I blinked. “Sure,” I said.
“Okay, then. What you want?”
“Young woman, killed last night in an alley in the Budayeen. Her name was Vi.”
“Yeah?” He wasn’t making it any easier for me.
“We were just wondering if you have determined the cause of death yet.”
There was a long pause while the assistant went off to investigate. When he returned he said, “Well, we ain’t got to her yet, but she died on account she was murdered. Slashed throat, heavy loss of blood. That’ll do it every time.”
I grimaced. I could only hope they’d be a little gentler with Vi’s real family. “Could you tell me, were there any puncture wounds on the throat?”
“Told you we ain’t got to her yet. Don’t know. Call again tomorrow maybe. We ought to have her on the slab by then. Do you need to come watch?”
I just hung up after leaving my commcode. I was sure that Lily would have happily viewed the autopsy, but even if I couldn’t quite remember who Vi was, she probably deserved better treatment than that.
The two European marks got up and left the club about a half hour later. Yasmin came and leaned against the bar near me. She was brushing her hair again. “What jerks,” she said.
They’re all jerks, is the general opinion.
“I called about Vi,” I said. “No vampire. She was just murdered in the alley.”
“Huh,” Lily said dubiously. “Like she could bite herself in her own neck.”
I spread my hands. “They haven’t confirmed the business about the puncture wounds. You’re just exaggerating all of this way out of proportion.”
Yasmin looked at me knowingly. “You’ll see,” she said. She turned to Lily, who nodded her agreement. Dealing with my employees is sometimes very hard on my nerves. I thought about having my first drink of the day, but I didn’t. I went out to get something to eat instead.
Now, Chiriga’s is about halfway between the eastern gate of the Budayeen and the western end—the cemetery. There are plenty of places to eat along the Street, and on this particular occasion I decided to head toward Kiyoshi’s. I hadn’t walked far before I saw the Lamb Lady.
“Oh boy,” I muttered. Safiyya the Lamb Lady is a regular feature of the Budayeen, one of our favorite odd characters. She’s harmless, but she can talk at you so long you’re sure you’ll never get away. She lives on money people give her and she sleeps wherever anybody will let her. I’ve let her stay in my club a few times. She’s completely honest, just addled a bit. That’s why I was surprised to see her wearing a lot of expensive-looking jewelry. She had on eight or ten silver rings, two silver necklaces, silver earrings, and silver bracelets and bangles from her wrists halfway to her
elbows.
“Where’d you get all that, Safiyya?” I asked.
“Watch out for the lamb,” she said in a hoarse voice. She used to have a lamb that followed her around the Budayeen, but it was accidentally killed. Now Safiyya has an imaginary lamb. I’d almost bumped into it.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Isn’t this nice stuff?” she said. She jingled her bracelets. “I found it all in the trash.”
“In the trash?” The silver she was wearing must have been worth four or five hundred kiam. “Where?”
“Oh, it’s all gone now,” Safiyya said. “I took it. I’ll show you, though, if you want to see.” I followed her because I was curious. She led me to the back of a whitewashed, two-story apartment building, where four trash cans had been upended. Garbage was strewn all over the narrow passageway between buildings, but we didn’t find any more jewelry.
When Safiyya started showing off all this silver, she would make herself a target for robbery, or worse. I decided to mention this to one of my connections in the police department; they’d keep an eye on Safiyya. With crazy Vi’s unsolved murder the night before, I guessed there’d be a stronger police presence in the Budayeen tonight. I’d hate to see the Lamb Lady become the killer’s second victim.
However, the rest of the day passed quietly. Nothing happened to Safiyya, and nothing happened to me. I went home, trimmed my beard, took a long shower, and sat down at my desk to get some of my paperwork done. After a while, Kmuzu interrupted me.
“The master of the house wishes you to meet with him in an hour, yaa Sidi,” he said.
I nodded. The master of the house was my great-grandfather, Friedlander Bey, who controlled much of the illicit activities in the city. He was a very powerful man, so powerful that he also found it profitable to control the rise and fall of certain nearby nations. It was like a hobby with him.
Forty-five minutes later I was dressed the way Papa liked me to dress, standing at the door to his office. It was guarded by Habib and Labib, Papa’s huge, silent bodyguards. I wasn’t going in until they felt like letting me go in.
Tariq, Friedlander Bey’s secretary and valet, came out and noticed me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said.
I shrugged. “I’ve just been watching these two guys. You know, they don’t move at all. They don’t even breathe. How do they manage that?”
Tariq did the smart thing and ignored me. He ushered me into Papa’s inner office. Friedlander Bey reclined on a lacquered divan. He indicated that I should seat myself across from him. Between us was a table loaded down with trays of food and fruit, juices and silver coffee things. We chatted informally while we drank the customary cups of coffee. Then, suddenly, Papa was all business.
“You are spending too much time in the Budayeen,” he said.
“But O Shaykh, you gave me the nightclub—“
He raised a hand. I shut up. “There are more important matters. Representatives from the Empire of Parthia will be arriving tomorrow. They wish our support in their expansion into Kush.”
“I didn’t even know they—“
“I do not believe we will give them what they desire. Indeed, I think it is time that Parthia be, shall we say, disunited.”
What could I do but agree? We discussed these weighty affairs for some time. At last, Papa relaxed. He took an apple and a small paring knife. “You called the medical examiner today, my darling,” he said.
I was astonished. “Yes, O Shaykh.”
“You are interested in the death of the young dancer. It is of no importance.”
Maybe it’s because I used to be a poor street kid myself, but the lives and deaths of the people of the Budayeen matter more to me.
Friedlander Bey went on. “Your employees believe in vampires.” He was amused. “Lieutenant Giragosian of the police does not.” Here his amusement ended. “You will not pursue this further. It is a waste of time, and it is unseemly for you to concern yourself with what is, after all, chiefly a Christian myth.”
Crazy Vi’s body in the morgue was no myth. And in the Maghreb, the far western part of North Africa where I’d grown up, there are still stories of the Gola. She is a female djinn, very big and strong, sometimes with goat’s feet and covered with hair like an unshorn sheep. Her trick is that she speaks sweetly and gently to people, and then kills them and drinks their blood. The Gola is usually described as having those familiar long, fierce, canine teeth and eyes like blazing fire. Still, I wasn’t about to mention any of this to my benefactor.
“You and I will share luncheon tomorrow with the Parthians,” Papa said. “Forget about the murdered woman, your nightclub, and the Budayeen for a while.”
“As you wish, O Shaykh,” I said. Yeah, sure, I thought.
I returned to my suite and relaxed with a detective novel by Lutfy Gad, my favorite Palestinian mystery writer. He’d been dead for decades, so there were no new Gad books, but the old ones were so good I could enjoy them again and again. This one was called The Deep Cradle, and if I remembered correctly, it was the one in which Gad’s dark and dangerous detective, al-Qaddani, ended up in Breulandy with almost every bone in his body broken.
It’s amazing, sometimes, how resilient those paperback detectives are. I wish I knew how they did it.
The phone on my belt rang. That meant the call was probably from one of my disreputable friends and associates; otherwise, the desk phone would have rung. I unclipped it and murmured, “Marhaba.”
“Marîd? It’s Yasmin, and guess what?”
She actually waited for me to guess. I didn’t bother.
“You know that boys’ club of yours?” she said. I have a small army of kids who look out for me in the Budayeen, watch me and make sure I’m not being followed by the cops or anything. I throw them a few kiam now and then.
“What about them?” I asked.
“One of ‘em’s dead and it looks like Sheba all over again. Kid’s throat is torn open and before you say anything, I saw the goddamn puncture marks this time, like from fangs. So you’re wrong.”
It bothered me that her notion about Sheba was more important to her than the death of that poor boy. “Who was it?” I asked. “Anybody you know?”
“Yeah, stupid. Sheba, like I been telling you.”
I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, not her. The boy. Who was it?”
I could almost hear her shrug. “They have names, Marîd? I mean, how would I know?”
I closed my eyes. “Call the police, Yasmin.”
“Chiri already did.”
“All right. I’ve got to go now.”
“Something else, Marîd. Lily and me and this girl you don’t know, Natka, and Sheba were all going to have supper after work tonight. At Martyrs of Democracy. Anyway, Sheba comes in real late with this lame excuse about having this admiral or something buy her one bottle of champagne after another even though the night shift had come in. What’s an admiral doing in the Budayeen in the first place? And I know Sheba’s no dayshift girl. So she’s all out of breath and she seems really nervous, not just to me, you can ask Lily about it. And you know what? When we ordered the food, she asked me please not to get the pork strings in garlic sauce. That’s what I always order. So I asked her why, and she said her stomach was bothering her, like maybe she was pregnant or had the flu or something, and the smell of the garlic would make her sick. Garlic, Marîd, get it?”
I opened my eyes. “Maybe it wasn’t the garlic, sweetheart. Maybe she just remembered that none of you good Muslim women ought to be eating pork, in strings or anyhow.”
There was a pause while Yasmin figured if I was kidding her or not. She let it go. “How much more proof do you need, Marîd?” she asked angrily. “You’re really being a jackass about this.” I heard her slam the phone down. I put mine back on my belt and shook my head.
Behind me, I heard Kmuzu say, “If I may say so, yaa Sidi, I have noticed a tendency on your part to hesitate to get involved in s
uch matters until you yourself are personally threatened. In the meantime, innocent lives can be lost. If you think back, I’m sure you’ll recall other—“
“The voice of my conscience,” I said wearily, turning to face him. “Thank you so much. Are you telling me I should take this vampire stuff seriously? Especially after Papa specifically told me to ignore it?” You see, Kmuzu wasn’t merely my slave; he’d been a “gift” from Friedlander Bey, someone to spy on me and report back to Papa.
He shrugged. “The people of the Budayeen have no one to turn to but you.”
“So if I pursued this, you’d help me?”
Kmuzu spread his hands. “Oh no. The master of the house has made his feelings clear. Nevertheless, you could telephone Lieutenant Giragosian and learn what he knows.”
I did just that. I called the copshop. “Lieutenant Giragosian’s office,” a man said.
“I’d like to speak to the lieutenant, please. This is Marîd Audran.”
“Audran, son of a bitch. The lieutenant isn’t, uh, available right now.”
“Who’s this, then?”
“This is his executive assistant, Sergeant Catavina.” Jeez, the laziest, most easily bought cop in the city. How his star had risen.
“Look, Catavina,” I said, “there’ve been two murders in the Budayeen in the last couple of days. One was a dancer, a real girl named Vi, and the other was a boy. Both had their throats torn out. Know anything about them?”
A pause. “Sure we do.” He was playing it cagey. Dumb cagey.
“Look, pal, you want me to have Friedlander Bey send over a couple of guys to question you personally?”
“Take it easy, Audran.” There was a gratifying hint of anxiety in Catavina’s voice. “What are you looking for?”
“First, what’s the ID on the boy?”
“Kid named Mahdi il-Mallah. Eleven years old.”
I knew him. He was one of my friends. I felt a familiar coldness in my gut. “What about puncture wounds on the neck?”
“How’d you know? Yeah, that’s in the report. Now, I got to tell the lieutenant you called. What you want me to tell him when he asks me what you’re up to?”
Budayeen Nights Page 13
