"Maghrebi," he said, "you're getting quite a reputation lately as someone who can fix things. You know, solve problems and stuff."
Sure, I was. Since I became Friedlander Bey's reluctant avenger, I've had to deal directly and violently with some vicious bad-guy types. Now many of my friends looked at me differently. I imagined they were whispering to one another, "Be careful of Marîd—these days, he can arrange to have your legs broken."
I was becoming a force to be reckoned with in the Budayeen—and beyond it as well, in the rest of the city. Occasionally I had misgivings about that. As interested as I was in the tasks Papa gave me, despite the glamorous power I could now wield, there were still many days when all I really wanted was to run my little club in peace.
"What do you want me to do, Jacques? Strong-arm the guy who screwed Fuad? Grab him by the throat and shake him until he sells the van to him?"
"Well, no, Marîd, that's silly. The guy doesn't even have the van anymore."
I'd come to the end of my patience. "Then what, goddamn it?"
Jacques looked at me and then immediately looked away. "I took the cashier's check from Fuad and I don't know what to do with it. Just tell me what you'd do."
"Jeez, Jacques, I'd deposit it. I'd put it in my account and wait for it to clear. When the twenty-four hundred kiam showed up on my balance, I'd withdraw it and give it to Fuad. But not before. Wait for the check to clear first."
Jacques's face widened in a shaky smile. "Thanks, Marîd. You know they call you Al-Amin on the Street now? 'The Trustworthy.' You're a big man in the Budayeen these days."
Some of my poorer neighbors had begun referring to me as Shaykh Marîd the Trustworthy, just because I'd loaned them a little money and opened a few soup kitchens. No big deal. After all, the holy Qur'ân requires us to look after the welfare of others.
"Yeah," I said sourly, "Shaykh Marîd. That's me, all right."
Jacques chewed his lip and then came to a decision. "Then why don't you do it?" he said. He pulled the pale green check from his shirt pocket and put it down in front of me. "Why don't you go ahead and deposit it for Fuad? I really don't have the time."
I laughed. "You don't have the time?"
"I got some other things to worry about. Besides, there are reasons why I don't want the twenty-four hundred kiam showing up on my bank balance."
I stared at him for a moment. This was just so typical. "Your problem, Jacques, is that tonight you came real close to doing someone a good deed, but you're catching yourself in the nick of time. No, I don't see any reason why I should."
"I'm asking you as a friend, Marîd."
"I'll do this much," I said. "I'll stand up for Fuad. If you're so afraid of being stiffed, I'll guarantee the check. Got something to write with?" Jacques handed me a pen and I turned the check over and endorsed it, first with the name of the guy who'd broken Fuad's heart, then with my own signature. Then I pushed the check back toward him with my fingertips.
"I appreciate it, Marîd," he said.
"You know, Jacques, you should've paid more attention to fairy stories when you were young. You're acting like one of the bad princes who pass by the old woman in distress on the road. Bad princes always end up getting eaten by a djinn, you know. Or are you mostly European types immune to folk wisdom?"
"I don't need the moral lecture," said Jacques with a scowl. "Listen, I expect something from you in return."
He gave me a weak smile. "Sure, Marîd. Business is business."
"And action is action. That's how things work around here. I want you to take a little job for me, mon ami. For the last few months now, Friedlander Bey has been talking about getting involved with the datalink industry. He told me to watch out for a bright-eyed, hard-working person to represent his new enterprise. How would you like to get in on the ground floor?"
Jacques's good humor disappeared. "I don't know if I have the time," he said. His voice was very worried.
"You'll love it. You'll be making so much money, inshallah, you'll forget all about your other activities." This was one of those cases when the will of God was synonymous with Friedlander Bey.
His eyes shifted back and forth like a small animal in a trap. "I really don't want—"
"I think you do want to, Jacques. But don't worry about it for now. We'll discuss it over lunch in a day or two. Now I'm glad you came to me with your problem. I think this will work out very nicely for both of us."
"Got to deposit this in the bank machine," he said. He got up from his stool, muttered something under his breath, and went back out into the night. I was willing to bet that he deeply regretted passing by Chiri's tonight. I almost laughed at the look on his face when he left.
Not much later, a tall, strong black man with a shaven head and a grim expression came into the club. It was my slave, Kmuzu. He stood just inside the door, waiting for me to pay Chiri and the dancers and lock up the bar. Kmuzu was there to drive me home. He was also there to spy on me for Friedlander Bey.
Chiri was always glad to see him. "Kmuzu, honey, sit down and have a drink!" she said. It was the first time she'd sounded cheerful in at least six hours. She wouldn't have much luck with him, though. Chiri was seriously hungry for Kmuzu's body, but he didn't seem to return her interest. I think Chiri'd begun to regret the ritual scars and tattoos on her face, because they seemed to disturb him. Still, every night she offered him a drink, and he replied that he was a devout Christian and didn't consume alcohol; he let her pour him a glass of orange juice instead. And he told her that he wouldn't consider a normal relationship with a woman until he'd won his freedom.
He understands that I intend to free him, but not just yet. For one thing, Papa—Friedlander Bey—had given Kmuzu to me, and he wouldn't permit me to announce any free-lance emancipations. For another, well, as much as I hate to admit it, I liked having Kmuzu around in that capacity.
"Here you go, Mr. Boss," said Chiri. She'd taken the day's receipts, pocketed half off the top according to our agreement, and now slapped a still-healthy stack of kiam on the bar in front of me. It had taken me quite a while to overcome my guilt at banking so much money every day without actually working, but in the end I'd succeeded. I was no longer bothered by it, because of the good works I sponsored, which cost me about 5 percent of my weekly income.
"Come get your money," I called. I wouldn't have to call twice. The assortment of real girls, sexchanges, and pre-operation debs who worked on Chiri's nightshift lined up to get their wages and the commissions on the drinks they'd hustled. Windy, Kandy, and Pualani took their money and hurried out into the night without a word. Lily, who'd harbored a crush on me for months, kissed me on the cheek and whispered an invitation to go out drinking with her. I just patted her cute little ass and turned to Yasmin.
She flipped her beautiful black hair over her shoulder. "Does Indihar wait up for you?" she said. "Or do you still go to bed alone?" She grabbed the cash from my hand and followed Lily out of the club. She'd never forgiven me for getting married.
"Want me to straighten her out, Marîd?" asked Chiri.
"No, but thanks anyway." I was grateful for her concern. Except for a few brief periods of unfortunate misunderstanding, Chiri had long been my best friend in the city.
"Everything okay with Indihar?" she asked.
"Everything's just fine. I hardly ever see her. She has an apartment for herself and the kids in the other wing of Papa's mansion. Yasmin was right about me going to bed alone."
"Uh huh," said Chiri. "That won't last long. I saw the way you used to stare at Indihar."
"It's just a marriage of convenience."
"Uh huh. Well, I got my money, so I'm going home. Though I don't know why I bother, there's nobody waiting there for me, either. I got every sex-moddy Honey Pílar ever made, but nobody to jam with. Guess I'll just pull my old shawl around my shoulders and sit in my rocking chair with my memories, and rock and rock until I fall asleep. Such a waste of my sexual prime, though." She kept looking
at Kmuzu with her eyes all big and round, and trying real hard to stifle her grin but not having much success. Finally, she just scooped up her zipper bag, downed a shot of tende from her private stock, and left Kmuzu and me alone in the club.
"You're not really needed here every night, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "The woman, Chiriga, is fully able to keep order. It would be better for you to remain at home and tend to your more pressing concerns."
"Which concerns are those, Kmuzu?" I asked, tapping off all the lights and following him out onto the sidewalk. I locked up the club and began walking down the Street toward the great eastern gate, beyond which lay the Boulevard il-Jameel and my car.
"You have important work to do for the master of the house."
He meant Papa. "Papa can get along without me for a little longer," I said. "I'm still recuperating from my ordeal."
I did not in any way want to be a heavy hitter. I did not want to be Shaykh Marîd Audran al-Amîn. I desperately wanted to go back to scrabbling for a living, maybe missing a meal now and then but having the satisfaction of being my own man, and not being marked for doom by all the other heavy hitters in the game.
You just couldn't explain that kind of thing to Friedlander Bey. He had an answer for everything; sometimes the answer was bribes and rewards, and sometimes it was physical torture. It was like complaining to God about sand fleas. He has more important things on His mind.
A warm breeze offered conflicting fragrances: roasting meat from the cookshops, spilled beer, the scent of gardenias, the stink of vomit. Down the block, a starved-looking man in a long white shirt and white cotton trousers was using a green plastic hose to wash the night's trash from the sidewalk into the gutter. He grinned toothlessly at us as we approached, turning the stream of water to the side as we passed. "Shaykh Marîd," he said in a hoarse voice. I nodded to him, sure that I'd never seen him before.
Even with Kmuzu beside me, I felt terribly forlorn. The Budayeen did that to me sometimes, very late at night. Even the Street, which was never completely quiet, was mostly deserted, and our footsteps echoed on the bricks and flat paving stones. Music came from another club a block away, the raucous noise worn to a mournful smoothness by the distance. I carried the dregs of my last White Death in a plastic go-cup, and I swallowed it, tasting only ice water and lime and a hint of gin. I wasn't ready for the night to be ending.
As we walked nearer to the arched gate at the eastern end of the walled quarter, I felt a great, expectant hush settle over me. I shuddered. I wasn't sure if what I felt was some mysterious signal from my unconscious mind, or merely the result of too many drinks and too much tiredness.
I stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk at the corner of Third Street. Kmuzu stopped, too, and gave me a questioning look. Bright blood red neon zigzags framed a holo display for one of the inexpensive Kafiristani bodmod clinics on the Street. I glanced at the holo for a moment, watching a plump, slack-featured boy metamorphose into a slender, voluptuous girl. Hurray for the miracles of time-lapse holography and elective surgery.
I turned my face up to the sky. I suddenly understood that my few days of respite were coming to an end, that I'd have to move along to the next stage of my development. Of course, I've had this sensation before. Many times, as a matter of fact, but this was different. Tonight I had no illicit drugs in my system at all.
"Jeez," I muttered, feeling a chill in that desert summer night, and leaning against the clinic's plate-glass front.
"What is it, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.
I looked at him for a moment, grateful for his presence. I told him what had just passed through my dazzled mind.
"That was no message from the stars, yaa Sidi. That was what the master of the house told you this morning. You'd taken an unfortunate number of Sonneine tablets, so perhaps you don't remember. The master of the house said he had decided what the next step of his vengeance should be."
"That's what I was afraid of, Kmuzu. Any idea what he means?" I liked it better when I thought the crazy notion had come from outer space.
"He does not share all his thoughts with me, yaa Sidi."
I heard a low rustling sound and I turned, suddenly afraid. It was only the wind. As we walked the rest of the way down the Street, the wind grew stronger and louder, until it was whipping scraps of paper and fallen leaves in fierce whirling gusts. The wind began to drag sullen clouds across the night sky, covering the stars, hiding the fat yellow moon.
And then the wind died, just as we emerged from the Budayeen onto the boulevard beyond the wall. Suddenly everything was quiet and calm again. The sky was still overcast, and the moon was a pale glow behind a silver cloud.
I turned to look back at the eastern gate. I don't believe in prescience or premonitions, but I do recall the disquiet I felt as Kmuzu and I headed toward my cream-colored Westphalian sedan parked nearby. Whatever it was, I said nothing of it to Kmuzu. He is in every situation almost repellently rational.
"I want to get home quickly, Kmuzu," I said, waiting for him to unlock the passenger door.
"Yes, yaa Sidi." I got into the car and waited for him to walk around and get behind the wheel. He tapped in the ignition code and steered the electric car north on the broad, divided street.
"I'm feeling pretty strange tonight," I complained, leaning my head back against the seat and closing my eyes.
"You say that almost every night."
"I mean it this time. I'm starting to feel very uncomfortable. Everything seems different to me now. I look at these tenements and I see they're like human ant farms. I hear a scrap of music, and suddenly I'm listening to somebody's cry of anguish lost in the void. I'm not in the mood for mystical revelations, Kmuzu. How do I make them stop?"
He uttered a low-pitched laugh. "You could sober up, yaa Sidi."
"I told you, it's not that. I am sober."
"Yes, of course, yaa Sidi."
I watched the city slide by beyond my window. I wasn't up to arguing with him any further. I did feel sober and wideawake. I felt filled with energy, which at four o'clock in the morning is something I hate a lot. It's the wrong time of day for enthusiasm. The solution to that was simple, of course: a largish dose of butaqualide HCL when I got home. The beauties would give me a few minutes of delicious confusion, and then I'd fall out for a good night's sleep. In the morning, I wouldn't even remember this unpleasant interlude of clarity.
We rode in silence for a while, and gradually the weird mood left me. Kmuzu wheeled the car toward Friedlander Bey's palace, which lay just beyond the city's Christian quarter. It would be good to get home, stand under a hot shower for a few minutes, and then read a little before going to sleep. One of the reasons I'd been staying in Chiri's until closing time every night was that I wanted to avoid running into anyone at the house. At four o'clock, they'd all be sound asleep. I wouldn't have to face them until morning.
"Yaa Sidi" said Kmuzu, "there was an important call for you this evening."
"I'll listen to my messages before breakfast."
"I think you ought to hear about it now."
I didn't like the sound of that, although I couldn't imagine what the trouble could be. I used to hate answering my phone, because I owed money to so many people. Nowadays, though, other people owed me money. "It's not my long-lost brother, is it? He hasn't shown up expecting me to share my good fortune with him, has he?"
"No, it wasn't your brother, yaa Sidi. And even if it were, why wouldn't you be glad to—"
"I wasn't serious, Kmuzu." Kmuzu's a very intelligent guy, and I've come to depend on him quite a lot, but he has this huge blind spot where other people have a sense of humor. "What was the message, then?"
He turned from the street into the gate to Papa's mansion. We paused long enough at the guard's post to be identified, then rolled slowly up the curving driveway. "You've been invited to a celebratory dinner," he said. "In honor of your return."
"Uh huh," I said. I'd already endured two or three of those in recent days. E
vidently, most of Friedlander Bey's minions in the Budayeen felt obliged to fete us, or risk having their livelihoods stripped away. Well, I'd gotten some free meals and some decent gifts out of it, but I thought all that had come to an end. "Who is it this time? Frenchy?" He owned the club where Yasmin used to work.
"A man of much greater significance. Shaykh Reda Abu Adil."
I just stared in disbelief. "I've been invited to have dinner with our worst enemy?"
"Yes, yaa Sidi."
"When is this dinner, then?" I asked.
"After evening prayers tonight, yaa Sidi. Shaykh Reda has a busy schedule, and tonight was the only possible time."
I let out a deep breath. Kmuzu had stopped the car at the foot of the wide marble stairs leading up to the mahogany front door. "I wonder if Papa would mind if I slept late this morning, then," I said.
"The master of the house gave me specific instructions to make certain you attended him at breakfast."
"I'm definitely not looking forward to this, Kmuzu."
"To breakfast? Then eat lightly, if your stomach is still upset."
"No," I said with some exasperation, "to this dinner party with Shaykh Reda. I hate being off-balance. I don't have any idea what the purpose of this meeting is, and it's fifty-fifty that Papa won't see fit to tell me about it."
Kmuzu shrugged. "Your judgment will see you through, yaa Sidi. And I will be there with you."
"Thank you, Kmuzu," I said, getting out of the car. Actually, I felt better about having him around than I did about my judgment. But I couldn't very well tell him that.
11
I'll always remember it as "The Day of Three Meals."
Actually, the meals themselves were not memorable—in fact, I can't remember much about what I actually ate that day. The significance comes from what happened and what was said across the three tables.
The day began with Kmuzu shaking me awake a full half hour earlier than I'd planned to get up. My alarm-clock daddy was set for half past seven, but Friedlander Bey had moved up the breakfast hour by thirty minutes. I hate getting up, whether it's bright-eyed, high-stepping, and resentful thanks to the chip, or sluggish, yawning, and resentful thanks to Kmuzu. I figured if Allah had wanted us up that early, He wouldn't have invented noon.
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