A Fire in the Sun

by George Alec Effinger

  "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. "I 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 yourself 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 wearing 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 SA, 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 recovering—"

  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."

  16

  THE WESTPHALIAN SEDAN was headed north, away from Hâmidiyya. I had my English daddy chipped in and I was speaking on the phone to Morgan. "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 kingpin, 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 something 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 Abdul-Qawy's face. That may be one of the reasons Saied wasn't popular around Hamidiyya anymore.

  He was quiet for a little while. "Marîd," 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 Friedlander Bey or nothing. I didn't think I was hurting anybody."

  "I almost died twice, pal. First the fire, then Jawarski."

  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 confronted 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 financial 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. Anothe
r 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 material. "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 Umm 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? Perhaps she gave up her plan, and now she's seeking revenge."

  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 something Jirji Shaknahyi had invented, and that the meaning of the words had died with him. "Why did Abu Adil discuss 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 become like the furniture in a room. Several times I overheard 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 together 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 describes his physical condition, his tissue-matching profile, and his record of organ transplants and other modifications."

  "So both Abu Adil and Papa keep up with their people'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 transplant. 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 people 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, Kmuzu? 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 Friedlander Bey's lieutenant. The two men are great competitors, 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 compatible 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 people."

  "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 heartwarming.

  I went down to my usual place and waited for Indihar to come over. "White Death?" she asked.

  "Not right now. You thought any about what we talked about?"

  "About me moving into Friedlander Bey's little cottage? 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; I am."

  "Is there a difference?"

  "Yes. A big one. Now, what's your answer?"

  She sighed. "Okay, Marîd, 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 mourning 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 Pualani'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, Marîd," 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."