"That's too easy an analogy," said Dr. Yeniknani. I could tell that he was getting excited, explaining his research 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 redundancy 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. Lisân 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 actually 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 Messenger of God," said Dr. Yeniknani, "but you are a worshipful man in your own way. Two hundred years ago, a man 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 telephone 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 understood 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 connection between Abu Adil and the crazy American killer. The way things were starting to shape up, I wouldn't be surprised to hear that Jawarski was really my own long-lost brother.
14
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 recognized 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 recovery."
"Must be working," I said, smiling, "because the doctor says I'll be out of here today."
"Praise God," said the woman. She turned to the others 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 ungrateful, 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 baskets 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'ân it says 'That which you spend for good must go to parents and near kindred and orphans and the needy and the wayfarer. 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 kindness 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 Marîd al-Amin," murmured the woman, backing toward the door.
I'd earned an epithet! She'd called me Marîd 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 hurit 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 s
ome 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 sometimes, 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 unexpected!" 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 private 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 subservience, 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 Finishing 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, Morgan," 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 curving 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?"
"Uh huh."
"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 wonderin' if I could go to your doctor and use your name."
"Dr. Lisân doesn't have a private practice. But his assistant, Dr. Yeniknani, 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 reshaped, 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 showed 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.
A Fire in the Sun Page 22
