A Fire in the Sun

by George Alec Effinger

  "Yeah, you right," 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 secrets 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 you 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, Marîd," 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 personal 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 immediately. "Allô," he said.

  "Where y'at, Mahmoud. It's Marîd."

  "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 blessings 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 anybody 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 defensive on her behalf. But she's realized that she can't support 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 hated 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 attitude."

  "Fine. Whatever you say. It's not selling; call it whatever 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, arranging 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 recommended. He's able to place a child in a loving home immediately, and he's able to present the natural parent with a cash gift in such a way as to prevent any guilt or recriminations. 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 hundred 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 with newspaper, very much like the place Shaknahyi and I had investigated 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.

  "Marîd," 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. "Marîd, 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 spectacles. 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 hundred-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 bit of good. You'll be dead before you spend a fîq 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 thir
d 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'll 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 office.

  "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.

  19

  KMUZU," I said as he drove the sedan back to the house, "would you invite Umm Saad to have dinner with 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 dining 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 realize the game is over."

  Kmuzu tapped the steering wheel with his index fingers. "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 invitation, I heard the sunset call to prayer from Papa's muezzin. Since my talk with the elder of the mosque in Souk el-Khemis Street, I'd been worshiping more or less regularly. 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 every 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 addressed 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 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 nothing 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 misery. 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 understand," 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 Friedlander 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 eliminated 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 flechettes 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 Friedlander 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 remained 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 powerful backhand clout, he knocked Umm Saad to the floor. 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 blow. "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."