Budayeen Nights: Stories

Marîd Throws a Party

I KNOW THE MOST FRIGHTENING WORDS IN THE world.

Imagine waking up and having someone say, “Do you know what you did last night?” I shiver just thinking about it. I’ve heard those words before, and I pray to Allah I never hear them again.

It was Kmuzu who murmured that horrible question to me one morning. Kmuzu was a black African given to me by Friedlander Bey. I had not wanted a slave, just as I hadn’t wanted any of the other things Friedlander Bey had given me. Still, it just wasn’t good policy to turn Papa down. Everyone in the Budayeen — hell, everyone in the entire city — knew that.

Over the last few years, however, Kmuzu had become quite a lot more than a slave to me. He was someone I’d come to depend on; God well knew that I couldn’t always depend on myself. I needed someone like Kmuzu to look out for me from time to time. He was loyal and honest, a good man for a Christian.

Despite that, I could’ve done without the disapproval in his voice when he woke me up. I looked at him, my eyes bleary and my mouth tasting like I’d French-kissed a pigeon coop. “Yallah,” I groaned, feeling a booming throb in my head just behind my eyes.

“You need some breakfast, yaa Sidi,” Kmuzu said.

That was an infidel’s answer for everything: food. I didn’t want food, not ever again. The whole idea of breakfast was already nauseating me. “All right, you’re going to tell me anyway,” I said. “I’m a tough guy, I can take it. What’d I do last night?”

“There was a party.” He watched me trying to maneuver myself out of bed.

Yes, there had been a party, all right. It had been at my nightclub — well, the club I own with my partner, Chiriga. It had been a going-away party in my honor, because in a few days Papa and I were embarking on the pilgrimage to the holy city of Makkah.

This is one of the Five Pillars of Islam, something required of every Muslim at least once during his lifetime. Neither Friedlander Bey nor I had fulfilled that obligation, although we had spoken of making the hajj every year as the month of Dhul-Hijjah approached. Now this year, 1632 on the Islamic calendar, 2205 of the Christian era, we’d decided that we were at last both healthy enough and able. There was no way of knowing, of course, how many dead bodies would accumulate during our sacred and spiritual quest.

Anyway, to celebrate this holy undertaking, my friends had turned my place of business into an even more raucous den of licentiousness. I guess it seemed reasonable at the time. I only wished I could recall more of what had gone on.

I didn’t have any problem remembering what I’d done earlier in the day. I’d conspired with a Damascene whore to revenge myself on a man, someone who had betrayed my trust and stolen some money from me. The financial loss had been insignificant; it was the insult that had to be dealt with.

The man was Fuad, whom the people of the Budayeen called il-Manhous, which means something like “the Universally Despised.” When the Greek philosopher Plato sat down to consider the Ideal Form of “loser,” it was Fuad he imagined.

No one really liked Fuad. He whined, he begged, and he couldn’t carry out the simplest tasks without finding humiliating new ways to screw up. Still, his reputation was that he was a pitiful guy but basically harmless. I never would’ve believed him clever enough to scam me for twenty-four-hundred kiam, yet he had. I couldn’t let him get away with that, of course, but I could afford to be patient enough to work out a satisfying counter-sting.

Friedlander Bey, my great-grandfather and the most powerful man in the city, hears of everything that happens. I hear almost everything, because I’m Papa’s trusted right-hand man and because a lot gets said in my nightclub when the liquor’s flowing.

It was a little after two o’clock in the afternoon, about eight hours before the party was due to begin. I was sitting in my usual spot at the bar, where it curved in the back. Chiriga had thrown together my first white death of the day — gin, bingara, and a little Rose’s lime juice. I had a chipzine plugged into one of my two corymbic implants, and I was hearing a speech by the new amir of Mauretania, the country where I’d been born. As for all the seminaked women, sexchanges, and debs in the club, they were no distraction. After the first hundred thousand twirling tassels, the industry begins to lose some of its raw fascination.

The lovely young Yasmin sat beside me, sipping peppermint schnapps. She was a gorgeous, black-haired sexchange with whom I’d been having an on-again, off-again affair for the last few years. I was glad to have her back working for me. She put down her glass and stretched her lithe body. “Never guess what I heard,” she said, yawning.

Yasmin hears almost as much gossip as I do, but her problem is she believes all of it. I reached up and popped out my chipzine. “You heard that they’re going to build a replica of the Budayeen out in the desert so the tourists won’t bother us local residents around here.”

Yasmin’s dark eyes grew larger. “No! Are they? For real?”

“Forget it, Yasmin, I just made that up. What did you hear?”

She lifted her peppermint schnapps again and sucked up the rest of it noisily through a straw. “Fuad, that’s what.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What about Fuad?”

“Oh, just that he’s back in town. I heard it from Floor-Show Fanya who works over by the Red Light.”

I nodded. The Red Light had always been Fuad’s favorite club. Dumb criminals really do return to the scene of the crime, as if the Felons Federation had given him a copy of their pamphlet Common Sense: Why Bother? Here he was back in the city and probably believing that I’d never find out about it.

“I praise Allah for your good news,” I said. “That’s Fuad’s idea of laying low, huh?”

“You heard how he’s got this weird thing about going out with the black working girls. They know they can rob him all day and all night long. It gets him hot or something. Now he’s got himself a job as an itinerant crumber.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. It was only two in the afternoon, and already things were getting a little strange. “The hell is an itinerant crumber, Yasmin?”

“Oh, a guy who travels from town to town, friendless and alone, living on his wits, with his stainless steel implement. He scrapes away the bread crumbs and stuff between courses in good restaurants.”

“You mean like a busboy?”

“Sure,” she said, nodding. Then she shook her head. “No, not really. Crumbing is one step below busboy. He’s working over by Anna’s restaurant in the Hotel Palazzo di Marco Aurelio, you want to go see.”

Didn’t interest me. “What, he wears a white shirt and a bow tie and all that waiter drag?”

Yasmin nodded again. “Yeah, but he’s so starved-looking, he’s no great advertisement for the restaurant.”

“Shukran,” I said. Thanks. “Very interesting, sweetheart.”

“Thought you’d like to hear it.” She squeezed my arm, slipped off her stool, and casually made her way down the bar toward the three customers who’d just come into the club. There were worse ways to get hustled than by buying Yasmin drinks for an hour.

Chiriga, my good friend, partner, and barmaid, rested her elbows on a clean bar towel. She noticed that I’d already knocked back about half my white death. “You take it easy with those,” she said, frowning. “I think Papa and Kmuzu are right. You’re more fun to have around when you’re not drunk or taking pills.”

I didn’t even answer. This was one of those black-pot kettle-calling times. Instead, I looked around our club. There were five dancers working for us in the daytime. One was Yasmin; one was the beautifully restructured real girl, Pualani; the third was Lily, a sexchange who had a crush on me; and two new dancers named Baby and Kitty. I hadn’t yet read them: Were they real girls, debs, changes? I didn’t really need to know, but everyone else on the Street hung on the day the truth would come out.

“Slow shift so far,” I said.

“Always slow in the daytime. The really kinky girls make more money at night.”

“So why don’t you work nights again and make more money?”

Chiri looked at me as if I were stupid. “Didn’t I just say? ‘Cause the really kinky girls are there.” She gave a little shudder, as if she herself hadn’t seen everything and done it all twice.

“Depends on your definition of kinky,” I said. I was twisting my thin little red straw into an equilateral triangle.

Chiri grinned at me. Her strong white teeth were filed to points, the ancient fashion among the old cannibals back home. “I’m kinky, Marîd. You’re kinky. Every girl, deb, and change here in the afternoon is kinky. But those bitches at night, though — wow, kinky is what they did last summer. They’re into whole new realms by now. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Another drink, Chiri, please.” She took my tumbler and scooped some ice cubes into it, then went to the back bar for the bingara.

I thought some more about Fuad. I suppose that with my connections I could’ve gotten even with him with less expensive preparations, but I didn’t care at all about the money. Papa had made me wealthier than I’d ever dreamed, although I never let anyone know the details. As far as my interest in Fuad was concerned, it was the principle of the thing. And after all, I was planning to get back my twenty-four-hundred kiam, as well as every copper fiq that I would invest in the scheme to make it work.

Now, what did I know for sure? Only that Fuad was back in the city, working at the Ristorante Maximo, and still courting trouble nightly at Fatima and Nassir’s Red Light Lounge. Good enough. It was time to set my scheme in motion.

I unclipped my phone from my belt and whispered Sulome’s name into it. The phone found her stored commcode and began ringing. After a few moments, I heard her voice, husky with sleep. “Marhaba,” she said.

“Il-hamdu lillaah!” I said. Praise be to God. “I’m sorry I woke you up, Sulome. It’s Marîd Audran.” Chiri brought my second white death, and served it to me with a decided lack of graciousness.

“You couldn’t have waited another couple of hours?” Sulome sounded grumpy. “It was a long night.”

“I said I was sorry. Anyway, the guy I told you about came back to the city a few weeks ago, and he’s just lately started showing up in all his old haunts. I think it’s a good time to take him down, if you’re not too busy, of course.”

There was a pause from Sulome. “Well, I’ve got nothing important lined up. What do you want me to do?”

I looked at my watch. “You go back to sleep. I’ll send one of my associates — “

“One of your murdering thugs, you mean.”

I smiled. “Bin Turki’s reliable. I’ll send him on a suborbital with your ticket and half the money we agreed on. You’ll both be back in the city by sunset prayers tonight. I’ll have my man Kmuzu meet your flight and take you to our house. We’ll sort out all the small details in the morning.”

“Fine,” Sulome said in a bored voice.

“And keep your hands off bin Turki. He’s a good kid.”

Sulome laughed. “Sure, except he kills people. Whatever you say, Audran. See you later.” And then I was listening to empty dial tone.

I returned the phone to my belt and felt good. Business is business, and action is action — and I liked action better.

I slammed back the second drink and stood up. Yasmin was being shyly courted by a quiet Eur-Am guy. Lily had taken up conversation with a dark Mediterranean gentleman. Pualani was busily describing something chest-high to a man with Asian features. And Baby and Kitty were, as usual, brushing each other’s hair. There were other customers for them to try, men who would probably fall all over themselves buying champagne cocktails just to hear their low, purring voices, yet they only had eyes for each other.

“Going home early,” I announced to Chiri.

“When you get there,” she said, “tell that fine young man, Kmuzu, to come park his ass in here for a while. I think I could teach him a thing or two.”

“You and I both know you could teach him plenty. You’ve heard him, though. Won’t mess with a woman while he’s still my slave, he says.”

Chiri grinned slowly. “And that gets me so crazy. I think about him a lot, you know.”

“I know you do.”

“I think about him a lot.” She waved the bar towel at me, and I went out into the bright, hot, afternoon sun.

I didn’t want to wait for Kmuzu to come pick me up in my car, so I walked along the Street to get something to eat. It seemed as if every kind of flower in the world was in bloom, hanging in pots from balconies in a shower of pink, purple, white, red, and blue; it was like daytime neon. The air was still except for the lazy buzzing of insects — and the signals of the boys and men who watched over me while I was in the Budayeen. They whistled an old children’s tune that told me all was clear, I wasn’t being followed.

I bought a stick of broiled meat, onions, and peppers from the sidewalk window at Vast Foods. The kebab wasn’t really all that huge; “vast” had been only a sign painter’s error. The lamb and beef were coated in a rich, sticky sauce and I savored every succulent bite. It was one of those days when I realized again how much I’d given up, to move from the street life into the magnificent mansion of Friedlander Bey.

Beyond the eastern gate was the gorgeous Boulevard il-Jameel, with towering palm trees and carefully tended flowerbeds planted on the median strip. I walked to the cabstand and, yes, Bill was there. I was feeling confident and content, so much so that I was almost positive I would live through another ride with him.

“Bill,” I said, “you want to take me home?”

“Sorry, pal, but I only go home with girls.”

In any conversation with Bill, you had to give him a good head start because he’s generally slower on the uptake than most people. That’s because most people haven’t traded one of their lungs for an artificial sac dripping measured amounts of lightspeed hallucinogen into their bloodstream. That’s what Bill did, and that’s what’s made him into the barrel-of-fun, hold-onto-your-hat kind of driver that he was. Much of the time he’s crashing his cab through monstrous threatening paisleys that only he can see.

I ride with him because few other people will, and because I’ve seen those paisleys often enough myself.

“What I meant, Bill, was will you take me to Friedlander Bey’s house?”

“Papa, huh? Why didn’t he come down and get you himself?”

“Told him I’d rather ride with you. It’s faster.”

Bill snorted. “Sure as hell is that. I can make it even faster if you want. We can try for the land speed record, you know. As long as the streets are clear of bugs. They got bugs now, you know. Big bugs. Bugs as big as…as big as things.” He shivered.

“Won’t be any bugs around with me in the car,” I said calmly.

“No? You sure? You promise? Okay then, get in.”

“Oh, and Bill? We don’t have to try for the land speed record. Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” he muttered. “Son of a bitch, it’s always next time.”

We careened through narrow, twisting lanes, depending solely on Bill’s shrill horn and good karma to keep us from smashing into a jutting building or a recalcitrant pack animal. There was no direct route from the Budayeen to Papa’s estate near the Christian quarter, so Bill tried to make one. All in all, though, it was a good ride: Once again I’d survived, which was what counted most.

I paid Bill his fare and added a generous tip in the hope that he’d spend it on something sensible, such as food or shelter, instead of anti-bug-and-paisley weapons. The expatriate from the American republic of Sovereign Deseret backed out of the white-pebbled driveway. I heard the small stones crunching and then the burring sound of Bill’s electric taxi heading back toward the Budayeen.

Papa’s house — and now my home, as his legitimate though reluctant heir — was hidden behind half a jungle of tall, slender trees, well-kept shrubbery, and masses of flowering plants. It must have cost Friedlander Bey a small fortune to coax that floral effusion from the dry, sandy soil of the city. I hoped he enjoyed the beautiful result, although I’d never once heard him remark on it.

I looked up at the towers built at the corners of the walled estate. When I’d first come here, my suspicions were that they housed armed guards. They did, of course, all except the minaret, up which Papa’s personal muezzin climbed five times daily to call him to prayer. Papa would have nothing to do with the electronic recordings that called almost everyone else in the city through loudspeakers.

I went slowly up the broad, smooth marble stairs to the house’s entrance. Before I reached the carved front door, Youssef, our butler, opened it. “I pray to God that the day is pleasant to you, Shaykh Marîd.”

“Salam alekom,” I said. Peace be with you.

“Alekom-os-salam,” Youssef murmured.

“Thanks, Youssef,” I said. I walked by him. I wanted to go straight to my apartments in the west wing. When I got there, I found Kmuzu, my slave and watchdog, busily straightening my already achingly clean and neat rooms.

“You are home before we expected you,” Kmuzu said. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m just fine.”

“Can I get you something to eat, then? It’s well past lunch time.”

I sighed. “No, I grabbed something in the Budayeen. Please find bin Turki and send him to my office.”

“I must tell you that the master of the house wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.”

“I’ll be having dinner with him later. For now, send bin Turki to me.”

Kmuzu nodded. “Immediately, yaa Sidi.” Kmuzu was a very good slave.

I had been seated at my desk for only a few minutes, making flight reservations through one of the data decks, when Kmuzu announced bin Turki. The young man came from a nomadic Bedu tribe called the Bani Salim. He had returned with me to the city because he had a great hunger to see and learn new things. He was becoming a very useful helper; he merely shrugged and did what I asked, and showed no hesitation about the more “difficult” tasks I assigned him.

“God grant you peace, O Shaykh, inshallah,” he said. You hear the word inshallah a lot around the city; it means “if Allah wills.”

“May your day be happy, bin Turki,”

“You sent for me, Shaykh Marîd?”

“Yes, O Clever One. I’ve just purchased your ticket on the next suborbital to Ash-Sham. Damascus. It will be a good experience for you to visit that ancient place.”

“Ash-Sham!” bin Turki said with wonder. “The mother city of them all! I’ve dreamt of going there. What must I do for you?”

“A simple task. Here, the data deck is finished printing. Two round-trip tickets, one for you to and from Ash-Sham, a second round-trip from there to this city and back. You are to fetch a woman called Sulome el-Khabbaz. Here is her address and commcode. She’ll be expecting you.”

“If Allah grants it, there will be no difficulty.”

“Please bring her directly to this house,” I said. “Make her comfortable if I’m not home to receive her. I will tell Kmuzu to attend to her needs. Tell no one about her — as impossible as it sounds, try to keep her secret even from Youssef, Tariq, the Stones That Speak, and especially the master of the house. May you go and come in safety.”

“I understand, O Shaykh,” bin Turki said. “Salam alekom.” He took the suborbital tickets and Sulome’s address and left my office. When you gave that young Bedu a job, he just went ahead and did it, and he never complained. I liked bin Turki and trusted him. He reminded me of myself at a certain age.

I spent the rest of the afternoon going over ledgers, reports, and financial accounts. Reconciling the daily figures wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as people-watching in Chiri’s, but I hadn’t been elevated from punkhood merely to have fun. I’d guessed early on that I was in training for…something.

I worked at my data deck until Kmuzu came up behind me and murmured that it was almost time for dinner. I wasn’t unhappy to close the books for another day.

Dining with Friedlander Bey meant changing into more traditional Arab clothing. Kmuzu had laid out a clean white gallebeya with a light tan cloak to wear over it, a black-and-white-checked keffiya — the Arab headdress — -with a simple black rope akal to hold it in place, as well as sandals instead of my dusty black boots. This was all to keep Friedlander Bey happy; he was almost two hundred years old, and he was getting a little conservative in his old age.

Even after all this time, I was still a little unnerved by our meetings. I had never gotten over my awe of Papa’s kinglike power. When he was pleased with me and my activities, he was like a loving father. Just as often, however, his eyes would narrow and grow stern with unvoiced displeasure.

I’d purchased a gift for Papa, and I brought it along as Kmuzu and I walked toward the smaller dining room. When we arrived, we were confronted by Papa’s huge, grim-faced bodyguards, the Stones That Speak. “Habib,” I greeted one. “Labib,” I greeted the other. I never knew if I attached the correct name to the right individual, they were so alike. Fortunately, they never responded, however offended they might have been.

“Wait,” Habib or Labib said from above my head.

We waited.

It did not take long for the other Stone to discover that we were, after all, expected. “Go in,” he said. His voice was like the sound of granite being scraped by a blunt stone chisel.

We went in. Papa reclined on one of his elegant, expensive divans. There was a second divan facing him, and between us was a table spread with all sorts of meat, vegetables, and fruit dishes. Friedlander Bey raised a glass of sweet mint tea. “Ahlan wa sahlan,” he said, welcoming me.

I rested comfortably on the second divan. Kmuzu stood silently behind me. I raised my glass of mint tea toward Papa and said, “May your table last forever.”

He smiled and replied, “May Allah lengthen your life.”

We continued through a series of formalized Arab niceties until I announced, “I have brought you a gift, O Shaykh.”

Papa was pleased. “And I have one for you, as well, my nephew.”

By Almighty God, this was the last thing I wanted to hear-that Friedlander Bey had yet another one of his gifts for me. All the others had changed my life in unexpected and generally unwelcome ways. Of course, everywhere else in the world it’s considered impolite to refuse a present. Here in the city, in the midst of a land of Arab customs and Muslim traditions, such a show of ingratitude toward Papa could easily prove harmful to my well being.

“You are the Father of Generosity, O Shaykh,” I said. I had a tense, uncomfortable feeling in my belly, but I said it anyway.

Papa smiled at me indulgently. He enjoyed these occasions, principally because he was almost always the one in control. Few people caught Papa by surprise; if they did, they were usually instructed by Habib or Labib not to let it happen again. “It’s nothing,” Friedlander Bey said. “A mere trifle, really, yet I’m sure that you’ll find my gift profitable and rewarding.”

Papa had given me Chiriga’s, once upon a time. The nightclub had also proven to be profitable and rewarding. Of course, for a long while I lost the friendship of Chiriga herself, because she hadn’t really wanted to sell her establishment. Friedlander Bey had “persuaded” her. I wondered if his new present would have similar effects.

“May the Prophet of Allah — peace be upon him — bless you for your kindness,” I said. “I’m sure that I’ll be greatly surprised and pleased.” Well, surprised, anyway.

“It gives me great satisfaction to make this small gesture,” he said. He waved a hand to show how negligible his effort had been. I didn’t buy it for a minute.

“Please, my uncle,” I said, “allow me to show you what I’ve done. First, may I offer you this special edition of the noble Qur’ân?” According to common practice, you’re not supposed to buy or sell the holy book — a willing student of the Straight Path shouldn’t be prevented by poverty from learning the wisdom of the Qur’ân. The clever local way around this decree is that the contents of the book are always free of charge, but the merchant may sell the binding for whatever he can get. In this particular case, I’d had some of the best artists and craftsmen in the city create a beautiful, one-of-a-kind copy of the scriptures for Friedlander Bey, to take with him on the holy pilgrimage.

“This volume is truly lovely,” he said, as he turned the gold-edged pages. “Of course, even the plainest edition would be more than good enough for me. All that really matters is that I have the solace and guidance of the inspired words of the Disciple of God, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace.” His words were modest, but the tone of his voice and his expression said something else. I could tell that he was very happy with my gift.

“There is still more, O Shaykh,” I said.

His eyes opened wider. “More?”

“Yes, if you will permit it. I’ve taken the liberty of making all the necessary bookings for our pilgrimage. You’ve told me your father’s story often, about his own journey to Makkah. Well, I’ve done a little research, and I’ve arranged for us to follow exactly in his footsteps. We will hire the same means of transportation and stop at the same lodgings along the way. We will find our guides through the same agencies, and conduct our pilgrimage as much like your father’s as is possible in this day and age.” After all, a century and a half had passed since my twice-great-grandfather had made his trip to the holy city.

I don’t believe I’d ever seen Friedlander Bey completely astonished before. He started to say something, closed his mouth, opened it again, then gave up. He raised a hand to his forehead and shut his eyes for a moment. If it hadn’t been Papa — if he had been, say, an ordinary person — I might have thought he was about to show some strong emotion.

Instead, he quickly regained his composure and gave me only the briefest of smiles. Friedlander Bey had not climbed to the summit of wealth and power in the city by letting just anyone know his true thoughts and feelings. He put the copy of the Qur’ân aside and said quietly, “You’ve given me great happiness, my nephew. Now I will tell you what I’ve planned in return.”

I couldn’t imagine what Papa had done for me. A new car would’ve been nice, I guess; I just hoped I wasn’t getting another slave or some valuable treasure that had been grabbed away from one of my dearest friends.

“A few years ago,” Friedlander Bey said, picking up a sugared, nut-stuffed date and examining it carefully, “I arranged for you to have the finest experimental brain implants available. I was very gratified by the results. Now, however, surgical procedures have advanced further. Your brain-wiring is no longer unique. In fact, in some ways you are at a disadvantage compared to the present state of the art.”

Oh jeez, I thought. I knew for sure that I wasn’t going to like this.

Papa went on, still not looking directly at me. “I’ve made plans with the neurosurgery staff at al-Amir Hospital to upgrade you before we begin our pilgrimage. We decided to augment your cerebral functions by enclosing your brain in a reticule of delicate gold mesh.”

“Yes, O Shaykh, but-“

“Also, today’s implants are much smaller and can easily be hidden at the base of the skull. The new personality modules and data add-ons are now only a small fraction the size of your older ones. The hospital will fit you out with a new set. I know you’ll be as pleased as I am.”

“Yes, O Shaykh, but-“

Friedlander Bey raised a hand in dismissal. “No thanks are needed, my nephew. You will have the surgery tomorrow morning, and there will be enough time to recuperate before our departure.” He put the stuffed date in his mouth. There was nothing more to be said — by either of us.

So now I had plenty to think about while I got ready for the party.

Kmuzu tiptoed heavily around my suite of rooms. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was shooting me hard-eyed glances that were more reproachful than I thought the situation called for. All right, so I’d gone to a party the night before, so I’d stayed out Allah-only-knew how late and came in so damaged that I couldn’t even remember how I’d gotten home. I mean, I’m an adult — maybe not a completely responsible adult, but that’s my business.

Or so I thought that morning. I liked to cherish the fantasy that there was still a little liberty in my life. I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy living in Papa’s palace and having more money than I ever dreamed possible; it’s just that I got good and tired of having to account for every minute of my day, and that almost everything I really wanted to do was against the wishes of the master of the house. It didn’t help that everyone I knew in the Budayeen would’ve gladly traded places with me in a Marrakesh minute.

I caught Kmuzu staring at me again. He was trying to look impassive, but his lips were pressed together and his teeth were clenched so tightly that I could see his jaw muscles jumping. I wondered how long this was going to go on. “You reminded me about the party, Kmuzu,” I said. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“Do you recall that you are scheduled for surgery today, yaa Sidi?”

I closed my eyes and rubbed them. I nodded. “I remember. And that’s why I can’t have breakfast. I wasn’t supposed to eat anything after midnight.”

“You weren’t supposed to drink anything, either.”

I opened my eyes and tried to look innocent. “As far as I can remember, I didn’t.”

Well, that one didn’t get by Kmuzu. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was as disgusted as I’ve ever seen him. I told myself it didn’t matter to me what he was thinking.

In my mind I went over what had happened at the party. In the early stages it had been just fine — but no one ever cares about the early stages of a party. That’s why so many people always show up late. Now, what had gone on that could have put Kmuzu in such a snit?

Suddenly I remembered. My eyes opened wider. “Mary and Jesus!” I said in a low voice. “Somebody turned up dead in my club. In one of the booths.”

“Yes, yaa Sidi.”

“I don’t even know who it was, just some guy. I can’t remember anything after that. Yallah, I really don’t need this, not today.”

Kmuzu looked me directly in the eye and let two or three heartbeats pass. Then he said, “It gets worse.”

Fateful things were said and done at the party, despite my longstanding policy against that happening in my club. I didn’t ask for any of it — I usually don’t have to — but because of it my life would be a nonstop nightmare in the weeks to come.

In Chiriga’s, as in most of the Budayeen bars, the day shift runs from noon until eight in the evening, and the night shift from eight until four in the morning. Some owners even have a late, late shift from 4 A.M. until noon. You wouldn’t think there’d be enough trade to make it worthwhile to stay open then, but evidently there is. I personally don’t care. I’m not that hard up for money.

I told my gang that we’d be closing Chiri’s early because of the party. I shut the place down about two hours before midnight. Of course, Brandi, Kandy, and the other night girls complained about losing six hours of prime money-making time — and they weren’t talking about wages, either. I paid them for the whole shift; they were upset over the lost tips. I guess “tips” is one way of describing their supplemental income.

“It’s not fair, Marîd,” Brandi said. “The day girls got to work their whole shift and then they get to come to the party, too.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Life is like that sometimes. Listen, you don’t have to stay here, you know. I’m sure if you went down the Street to Frenchy’s, he’d let you work the rest of the night. But who knows? Maybe you’ll meet the love of your life here at the party. I mean, it could happen.”

Brandi grunted, her expression of supreme irony. “The love of my life lives in a drawer of my nightstand.”

“Well, the love of your evening, then. Or at least a solid twenty minutes.”

She shook her head and turned to Kandy. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to go to Frenchy’s,” Kandy said. “Or maybe the Red Light. We can always come back here if we don’t find anything better.”

All the night-crew dancers left, but I was paying Rocky, the late-shift barmaid, to stay and help out during the party. Rocky was a sturdy, broad-shouldered woman with short, brushy black hair. I’d hired her when Jo-Mama, her previous employer, had gone off to spend a year meditating in the amir’s women’s prison. As crazy as the night girls were, none of them wanted to mix with Rocky. She kept order in my place when I wasn’t around, and I was glad I could count on her.

For the first half hour, it wasn’t much of a party. It was Rocky and me, and Pualani, Lily, and Yasmin. I didn’t want to get too drunk too fast, so I chipped in an experimental add-on that caused my body to get rid of alcohol at faster than the usual ounce-an-hour rate. I was prepared for a night of grueling fun, so I had Rocky build me a white death. Her version didn’t taste as good as Chiri’s, but it did what it was supposed to do.

The five of us sat at the bar and gossiped about people who weren’t there to defend themselves. “Hey,” Lily said, “this is just like being at work, only we’re not getting paid.”

“You don’t have to listen to some stupid mark’s boring life story, either,” Rocky said.

“That’s true,” Pualani said. “Wait ‘til I tell you what happened today. I’m sitting right here at the bar, okay? And this guy comes in wearing a James Bond moddy.”

“Yeah?” Rocky didn’t sound very interested.

The Bond story caught my attention, though, because three years ago another creep wearing a similar James Bond moddy had actually shot somebody in my club. Killed the poor bastard.

Pualani went on. “And he comes up to me and he goes, ‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’ So I look at him and I’m like, ‘Off. Fuck off.’”

Yasmin snickered. “Cut him down, girlfriend,” she said. She raised her nearly empty glass. “After hours we don’t have to drink that lousy cheap champagne. Rocky, can I have another one of these, please?”

Rocky nodded and poured a peppermint schnapps for Yasmin. Nobody said anything else for a while. It wasn’t starting out to be much of a party.

And then Kmuzu came in with Indihar, my wife. They were carrying several large packages. Rocky and Pualani were glad to see them; both Lily and Yasmin gave Indihar some sour looks. Neither of them had been pleased when Friedlander Bey had, in his usual manner, provided me with a wife. It didn’t make any difference to Lily or Yasmin that Indihar and I hadn’t been pleased, either.

“What’s all that?” I asked.

“Put it down on the bar, Kmuzu,” Indihar said. She set her packages down and came up to me. “I thought I’d help get the party started. Looks like it needs starting.”

“Wow!” Yasmin said, investigating one of the packages. “Fried chicken! Where’s this from?”

“NOSFFF,” Indihar said. That was the New Orleans Soul and Fast Food Franchise, not far from the club. “I only got extra spicy.”

“That’s okay by me,” Yasmin said. If anything could take her mind off her semisecret jealousy, it was free food.

“What else is there?” Pualani asked.

“Well, I have about fifteen kinds of sushi and sashimi from Kiyoshi’s, and about a ton of couscous from Meloul’s, and a hundred fried dumplings from Martyrs of Democracy.”

“That’s perfect,” I said. I really love pot stickers.

Indihar glanced at me. “I got a hundred fried dumplings. Fifty of them are for Marîd, the other fifty are for everybody else. And there’s meze from that new Turkish place on Sixth Street.”

“What’s meze?” Rocky asked.

“Lots of different kinds of dishes that you’re supposed to sample while drinking,” I said.

“Like appetizers?” Yasmin said. “Sometimes I go into Martyrs of Democracy and have like six different appetizers for supper.”

“Then you should like this,” Indihar said. “There are another few packages still outside. Kmuzu, would you bring them in for me, please?”

“Yes, immediately, yaa Sitti.”

Indihar gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy yourself, Marîd, but don’t have too much fun. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

“I know, I remember.” I wasn’t happy about her talking to me that way. We were married, but we weren’t that married.

“I’m going to go now. Have a good time. It was nice seeing all of you again.”

“Indihar,” Rocky said, “you’re not going to stay?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got to get home to the kids.’

“The kids should be asleep already,” I said. “Anyway, I’m paying Senalda to give you a hand with them. Let her watch the kids tonight. Stay a little while.”

“I’ll go with you to the hospital tomorrow, Marîd. Good night, everybody.”

After she and Kmuzu left the club, Yasmin turned and said, “Well, that just means more fried chicken for the rest of us.”

“Son of a bitch, Yasmin,” Rocky said, “that’s cold.” Yasmin just laughed and flung her long black hair over her shoulder.

I’m sure it wasn’t a coincidence that the first guests to show up — right after the food arrived — were Jacques, Mahmoud, and Saied the Half-Hajj. These guys had been my best friends in the Budayeen, although in recent times events had reduced them from three to a total of no more than one-half of a best friend among them.

Jacques was three-quarters European and he made sure everyone knew it. He was a snob, and I didn’t like to be around him very much, but I’d put him to work in one of Friedlander Bey’s commercial ventures. Thanks to me, Jacques was making some good money and getting a little influence of his own, so now he showed me more respect. That was very generous of him, as he still found ways to remind me that I’d always be a full twenty-five percent less French than he.

Mahmoud had not been born a man. As a matter of fact, I can remember him as a slender, rather pretty girl with big, dark eyes, dancing at Jo-Mama’s Greek club some years ago. Now he weighed a lot more, had developed a mean, cruel personality, and still thought no one knew he worked for Friedlander Bey’s rival and enemy, Shaykh Reda Abu Adil. It was okay with me if Mahmoud believed he was fooling me. It was that much easier to keep a close watch on him.

Saied was actually a friend, but the kind of friend you wished lived in, say, Transoxiana — the kind of friend who sent you a letter every ten years or so, and you never had to deal with up close and personal. We called him the Half-Hajj because he had once set out on the holy pilgrimage to Makkah, got a brilliant idea for making a ton of money in a short amount of time, quit the pilgrimage and headed back home, and forgot the brilliant idea before he got back here. He’s so scatterbrained that I rarely saw him when he wasn’t wearing a personality module with a better short-term memory built in.

These three hung out together all the time. In simpler days — when I was still living on the street and my time was my own — I hung out with them, too. We used to sit in the Cafe Solace and play cards and gossip. I don’t get to do that much anymore.

The Half-Hajj had brought a date — some guy with light brown hair and blue eyes, tall but not very muscular, and good-looking enough, I suppose. My eyebrows raised, because I knew that Saied had been keeping time with the American kid everyone called Abdul-Hassan, whom he’d inherited when the boy’s previous protector was killed.

I knew better than to say a word, though. In the Budayeen, you never ask personal questions, not even something as innocent as “How’s the wife and kids?” Since the last time you saw them, they could have been sold into slavery or traded for a nice Esmeraldas holo system.

I went to greet them. “You just missed Indihar,” I said. “She brought the food and left.”

“Marîd,” Jacques said, “the drinks are on the house, right?”

That was so goddamn typical. “Yes, Jacques,” I said, “the drinks are free.” He smiled and went to the bar. I glanced at Saied, who just gave me a little shrug.

“It’s good that you’re making the hajj,” Mahmoud said.

“As if the religion means a copper fiq to you,” Saied said.

“Well,” I said, “it’s mostly Friedlander Bey’s idea.”

“It usually is,” Jacques said. He had come back carrying what looked like a tequila mockingbird. He’d probably had to tell Rocky how to make one.

“Papa’s starting to hear the calendar pages whisper,” I said. “He wants to go on the pilgrimage before he gets too old.”

“Ha,” Mahmoud said, “he’ll outlive us all.”

“He’ll certainly outlive some of us, I’m sure.” I tried to look completely innocent when I said that. I don’t even know if Mahmoud understood what I meant.

Saied reached out and tapped me on the shoulder with a forefinger. “I really should introduce you. Marîd, darling, this is my new friend, Ratomir. He’s in the city on business.”

“It’s Radomil, actually.” He gave me a brief, empty smile. “Good to meet you. You own this club?” He was obviously European, but he was speaking perfect Arabic. I took it for granted that he had an Arabic-language daddy chipped in.

“I own half of it,” I said. “Get a drink, have some food.”

“Let me get you something, sweetheart,” the Half-Hajj said. “What are we drinking?”

“Beer is fine,” Radomil said. Saied nodded and went to get the beer. A couple of things startled me: First, I don’t believe I’d ever heard Saied use any term of endearment on any occasion whatsoever; and second, he never fetched for anyone. That wasn’t his image, and he cared a lot about his image.

“It’s his new moddy,” Mahmoud said, knowing what I was thinking.

“Has to be,” I said.

“It’s a niceness moddy,” Jacques said. He was having trouble stifling his laughter.

I shook my head in wonder. Until now, the Half-Hajj’s favorite moddy had been Rex, the Butch Brute.

Radomil looked puzzled. “I rather prefer this personality to the one he was wearing when I first met him.”

Saied returned, and while he was handing Radomil a glass of beer and a plate of sushi, Jacques whispered in my ear, “Ain’t love grand?”

“I’m not going to say a single word,” I said. It was none of my business. It would just take me a little while to get used to a “nice” Saied, that’s all.

“Marîd,” Yasmin said, “don’t look now, but here come the Bucket-of-Mud Girls.”

“Who?” Mahmoud asked.

“As in ‘dumb as a bucket of mud,’” Lily explained.

“We’re back!” It was the triumphant return of Baby and Kitty, staggering drunkenly on either side of an obese bearded black man wearing a blue robe and sandals. He had a carefully trimmed beard, eyes like anthracite chips, and a small, bemused smile on his lips. There was something wrong with this picture. He didn’t look like he belonged in Chiriga’s, and he didn’t look like he belonged with Baby and Kitty, either.

They walked a crooked line to one of the booths in the back, near the rest rooms. As they passed me, I said softly, “Where’d you find this guy?”

Baby laughed. “We were in Frenchy’s, and he was buying bottles. He wanted to see Chiri’s. We told him we’d rather stay in Frenchy’s, but he wanted to see Chiri’s.” Baby shrugged. “So here we are. See if he wants to buy us another bottle.”

They squeezed into the booth, all three of them on one side. It looked like Kitty was getting crushed on the inside, but I didn’t hear her complain. “Would you like to buy these young ladies a drink, sir?” I asked.

“Whatever they want,” he said. His voice was low and solemn. He wasn’t drunk.

“A bottle!” Baby said.

I glanced at the man. Bottles went for a hundred sixty kiam. If he was looking for sex, he could get it a lot cheaper almost anywhere else in the Budayeen. I didn’t think he was looking for sex. I didn’t know what his angle was, or even if he had an angle.

“A bottle,” he said. “And for me, just coffee, please.”

I nodded. We didn’t have coffee in the club, but if the gentleman was going to spill cash for a bottle, I could send out for his coffee.

“See?” Baby said. “What did I tell you?”

“I don’t remember what you told me,” I said.

“You asked me before why we don’t like to dance when it’s our turn. Where we worked before, our boss told us that there were like two kinds of girls in these clubs. There are front-room girls and back-room girls. We’re like back-room girls.”

I mulled that one over for a few seconds. “Baby,” I said at last, “how long have you worked for me?”

She looked puzzled. “A couple of weeks, I think. How come?”

“In that couple of weeks, haven’t you noticed that we don’t have a back room?”

“You don’t?” She looked across the heavyset mark at Kitty, who seemed even more bewildered.

“Just take it easy,” I said. “I’ll have Rocky bring your bottle.”

“Happy birthday, Mr. Boss!” Baby called after me. Okay, let her think it was my birthday. Close enough.

I headed back toward the front of the club, and I saw Chiri come in. That cheered me up, because she was sensible enough to cancel out Baby and Kitty, with the Half-Hajj thrown in. “Hey, Chiri,” I said.

“Say, Bwana. I was expecting more of an actual party, you know what I mean? It’s too quiet in here. Play some music, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t know. I kind of like it like this. I get real tired of hearing the same songs all day.”

Chiri nodded. “I brought some different stuff from home. You mind if I play it?”

I shrugged. “Hey, the club’s half yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, giving me a smile with absolutely no humor in it. “Half of it.”

“You missed Kmuzu. He and Indihar came in a little while ago. They brought all that food.”

“Choo,” Chiri said. “I wish I’d known they were passing by. They didn’t stay very long, did they?”

I shook my head. “You might’ve been able to talk them into hanging around.”

“I sure as hell would’ve tried with Kmuzu,” she said. “Nothing against Indihar, of course.” She went toward the club’s holo system. For the rest of the night we’d all learn more about Chiri’s taste in music.

About the time her first selection started playing — it was one of those goddamn Sikh propaganda songs, and Chiri knows how much I hate them — I decided it was time to grab myself a few pot stickers. I took a paper plate, plopped six fried dumplings on it, and spooned on the black soy sauce and vinegar combination that Martyrs of Democracy had packaged in a plastic cup. I closed my eyes and murmured “Bismillah” — in the name of God; then I gulped down all six of the pot stickers and took six more. Even though the dumplings had cooled a little by now, they were still great. I told myself I should savor them more slowly. I didn’t.

“Here, Marîd,” Rocky said. She put a white death in front of me.

“Thanks, Rocky. Come on, eat something!”

“Oh,” she said, “I’ll pass. I don’t like the way NOSFFF makes their chicken, and you couldn’t pay me to eat that raw fish stuff.”

“Have some pot stickers then.”

Her eyebrows went up a little. “You mean it, Marîd? I thought they were all for you.”

I laughed. “I can’t eat a hundred of ‘em, Rocky.”

“Bet you could. I’ll try a little of that couscous. The guy who runs the restaurant, he’s a Maghrebi like you, isn’t he?”

“Meloul? Yeah, we’re both from Algeria. I mean, Mauretania. I think he’s a Berber from Oran, though. I grew up in Algiers.”

Rocky shrugged. “Same difference,” she said. In this city, far from the Maghreb — the “sunset” or western lands — it didn’t matter very much. People didn’t care where you came from or what you’d done there. The city — the Budayeen in particular — was a perfect place to lose your past and start over. I’d done just that, and most of the people I knew had done it, too. That made me wonder for a moment: Did I know anyone who’d actually been born and raised here?

“Trouble,” Rocky murmured.

I turned and looked. The ‘ricain kid, Abdul-Hassan, had come in. He shot a black look at Saied and his friend for the night, Radomil. The Half-Hajj hadn’t yet noticed that the kid had joined the party. I hoped Rocky’s prediction didn’t come true, but in a worst-case scenario I could handle Abdul-Hassan. I had proved that before.

Of course, the first thing the boy did was walk right toward me. “May you go and come in safety, Shaykh Marîd,” he said. Hooray, I thought, Saied had finally given the kid an Arabic-language daddy. Then Abdul-Hassan raised himself on his toes and gave me a kiss on the mouth. It was over in about two seconds, but it was a very good kiss.

That caught me off-guard. I glanced at Saied, but his expression was empty of resentment or anger. I didn’t know if the Half-Hajj truly didn’t care, or if his attitude was a function of the niceness moddy. Yasmin, however, was glowering. She was already fiercely jealous of Indihar; I knew she didn’t want to see anything develop between me and the American kid.

“Thank you for your good wishes, O Clever One,” I said. I tried to put a little more distance between us, but as I backed away, the kid followed.

At that moment, Yasmin decided to join the tableau. “Marîd,” she said in a chilly voice, “I really need to talk to you. Privately.”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go sit down at the bar.”

Abdul-Hassan put a hand on my arm and slowly scratched downward with his fingernails. “My heart will be empty until you get back from the hajj,” he said. I’d never noticed how long his eyelashes were. He gave my arm a little squeeze.

“Right now, Marîd,” Yasmin said.

“All right, Yasmin.” I said to the boy, “Enjoy the party. May it be pleasant to you.”

He said, “All who see you, live, O Shaykh. Maybe we can talk again later.” I had no trouble reading his expression, and I understood that talking was very low on the list of things he’d like to do with me later.

Yasmin and I took seats at the bar. “What is it?” I asked.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Yasmin said. “I just thought you needed someone to rescue you from that American slut. I didn’t think you were a chicken hawk, Marîd.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

I was amazed. “Believe me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She tilted her head and looked at me for a few seconds. “You forget that I know you, honey. I think you’d jam anything that held still long enough. In the right situation.”

“He’s pretty, Yasmin, but he’s too young and he belongs to the Half-Hajj.”

“Tell that to Saied, if you can get his attention away from that trick he brought in here.”

I got up from the stool. “You should listen to yourself. You’re jumping to all kinds of wrong conclusions.”

“What I said, Marîd.” She stood up and headed toward the plate of fried chicken.

The party lurched on toward midnight. I got pretty drunk despite the daddy I was wearing. More people came in, and I was very gracious and charming. At least, that’s how I remember it. I greeted Frenchy Benoit, who ran his own club on the Street, and Frenchy’s friendly barmaid, Dalia; we had a drink together.

Heidi, the beautiful blue-eyed German barmaid from the Silver Palm came in and wished me well; we had a drink together. Old Ibrahim, who owned the Cafe Solace, and Monsieur Gargotier, who owned the Fee Blanche, each had a drink with me. They stayed just long enough to mutter a few words in my ear and load up on free food. I thought Ferrari, who lived above his club, the Blue Parrot, might come by, but either he didn’t or he arrived after I’d stopped remembering things.

Safiyya the Lamb Lady dropped by for a little while. She was what other people on the Street called a “character.” She was harmless, though, as long as you didn’t threaten her imaginary lamb. She didn’t even realize there was a party going on. I gave her some food and a glass of beer, and she thanked me. She was the only person in Chiri’s all night long who thanked me for anything.

I do recall Kenneth being there for part of the evening. He was a tall, slender European with wire-rimmed spectacles. He had thin lips, always pressed tightly together; his expression showed that he was cursed to go through life surrounded by people and objects he dreaded to touch. The most notable thing about Kenneth, however, was that he was Shaykh Reda Abu Adil’s lieutenant and current fuck-buddy. Just as Abu Adil hated Friedlander Bey, so Kenneth hated me. The feeling was mutual.

“Shaykh Reda sent me,” Kenneth said. “He wanted me to convey his best wishes to you and to Friedlander Bey for your journey to Makkah.”

“Thank Shaykh Reda for me,” I said. I stared at him. I wasn’t going to say anything more. I wanted to see what he was really up to.

He stared back at me, and the silence got longer and more ridiculous. “I will have a glass of beer,” he said at last.

“Knock yourself out, Kenny,” I said.

His mouth twisted, but he didn’t say anything. A couple of minutes later I saw him, holding his glass of beer, in some kind of intense conference with Mahmoud. I didn’t know what they were discussing, but whatever it was it wouldn’t be good news for Papa and me.

Things began to get blurry soon after that. I have a vague memory of dropping my glass and spilling liquor and ice cubes on the floor. The glass shattered, and when I bent down clumsily, I overturned my plateful of couscous and meze on somebody. The American kid helped me to a chair at a table, and I sat down heavily. The room was making sickening circles with me at its center, and I told myself it might be a good idea to skip a couple of drinks until I was steady again.

Then Baby and Kitty were bending down, kissing me goodbye. The way I was feeling, it was too much effort to raise my eyes to their faces. Instead, I just stared at their remarkable tits. I gathered that Baby and Kitty were abandoning the bearded black man because he’d stopped spending money on them. Sure, okay. I guess they went to another club. The large gentleman himself called out to Rocky to bring him another cup of coffee.

I crossed my arms on the table and put my head down. The room spun even faster. I knew that if I did anything drastic, such as move or breathe, I was in danger of throwing up. I didn’t move or breathe.

The next thing I remember was someone shaking me by the shoulder. I supposed it was Abdul-Hassan, until I opened my eyes. I was wrong. It was Sulome, the working girl from Damascus. She was not supposed to be there. As drunk as I was, I knew that for a fact. “What?” I said. I hoped she understood what I meant, because I didn’t think I could say it any more plainly than that.

Sulome laughed. “This is the Marîd Audran I remember,” she said. She dragged another chair to my table and sat down. “Are you still promising everybody that you’re going to give up getting wasted?”

“Sulome?” I said. What I actually wanted to say was much more comprehensive than that, but I heard myself speak just the one word.

“So this is your bar. It’s okay, I guess. Some of these girls aren’t girls, Marîd, but I suppose you know that, and it probably doesn’t make any difference to you. Listen, I can see you’re not in very good shape right now. I’ll just get myself something to munch on. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

“Sulome?” I said. I sat up a little straighter. I was not happy to see her in Chiri’s. Nobody was supposed to know that she was even in town, and nobody was ever supposed to know that she and I knew each other. I didn’t want anything to spoil my scheme to get even with Fuad.

I saw her walk to the bar and fill a plate with fried dumplings. I admired how well she walked; I used to be able to walk just that easily, but that was many ounces of gin and bingara ago. I was about to find out how well I could navigate in this condition. I stood up — no problem, although I had to lean on my chair for a moment until my head stopped reeling. Then I set out on a generally northwesterly course, tacking across the floor in the hope of intersecting Sulome’s path somewhere.

Lily stopped me. “Listen, Marîd,” she said, “you’re in pretty bad shape. You really ought to go sleep it off. Rocky can close up here for you. Why don’t you let me take you home? I don’t live very far from here. I know you have to get up early tomorrow to go to the hospital. Just — “

I raised a hand, hoping Lily would understand what the gesture meant. I brushed by her, still following Sulome.

Then it was Jacques. “Marîd, is it my imagination, or is that moddy Saied’s wearing making him behave just a little on the nelly side of nice, know what I mean? If he could see and hear himself, he’d rip that moddy out and stomp it into tiny plastic pieces.”

I raised my hand again and kept moving. Sulome seemed to be getting farther away. I didn’t understand how that could be.

Frenchy grabbed me by the arm. “Listen, cap,” he said, “before you leave town — “

I raised my hand.

I’d almost caught up to Sulome. She was collecting a triple Johnny Walker Red with a Coke back from Rocky. I was too drunk to be aware of much that was going on around me, but somehow I can remember what she was drinking. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, she couldn’t have been more than six feet away. I took a step, then another. I reached out toward her.

Yasmin put herself between us. “This time I’ve had it, you noraf son of a bitch.” I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.

“Sulome,” I said. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she turned around so fast she nearly knocked me down.

“Don’t ever grab at me again,” she snarled.

“Sorry,” I said. She and I weren’t getting off on the right foot here. “You’re supposed to be — “

“Back at Friedlander Bey’s house,” she said. “Fuck that. I didn’t want to sit in a room all night. Bin Turki and this Kmuzu guy made sure I had everything I needed, and when they left me alone I snuck out. What you gonna do, fine me?”

I looked around helplessly. “Nobody’s supposed to know — “

“Yeah, yeah. Who knows me here, except you? If anybody connects us later on, it’s because they’re watching us talking right now. So go away.”

“I think we both should go back to the house. Grab some food and let’s go. I’ll kick you an extra hundred if that’ll get you out of here right now.”

She shrugged. “A hundred. Cash. Forget the food, I can’t stand that sushi stuff. What are we going to do, get a cab? Or you gonna call one of your thugs?”

“Stop calling them —” I was urging Sulome toward the door. We’d almost reached it, when Fuad came into the club. I pulled Sulome back.

“Goddamn, Marîd, didn’t I just warn you about that?”

“We can’t let that guy see us together.” This had to be one of the worst nights of my life. I wondered how many of my past sins I was paying for all at once.

“Who? That ugly scrawny guy? Hey, that’s not — “

“That’s Fuad, all right. That’s your mark. Oh, hell, he’s seen us. You don’t know me, all right?”

“What do you want me to do?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

“The hell do I know? Fake it.”

She grunted. “That I know how to do.”

I couldn’t believe that Fuad had crashed my party. Coming back to the city at all was pretty dumb; showing up at his old hangouts was plain stupid; but walking right into my nightclub was the kind of mistake that usually removed you permanently from the common gene pool. He was heading straight for me — and he was grinning!

“Marîd!” he said cheerfully, as if I’d be overjoyed to see him.

I nodded. “Fuad,” I said. He held his hand out, but I didn’t shake it.

After a few seconds he glanced down at his hand and put it in his pocket. He looked at Sulome, who was pretending to be interested in something happening behind Fuad’s head. I could see that he was immediately interested in her. Well, I’d known he would be; I just hadn’t planned for them to meet this way, or this soon. “Where y’at, Marîd?” he said.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. “I got to hit the John.” That was the truth. I turned and staggered to the back of the club, steadying myself on every piece of furniture along the way. I went into the men’s toilet, leaned my head against the dirty green wall, and closed my eyes. I paid back most of what I’d had to drink that night. I just hoped that my master plan for Fuad hadn’t been totally screwed up before it even started.

I threw a little water in my face — I wanted it to be cold, but during the summer months in the city there’s no such thing as cold water — and I told myself I felt better. I took a quick glance at my reflection in the mirror, and I did not look good at all. I left the toilet, trying to decide whether to get Sulome out of the club, or let her make a first impression on our victim.

As I walked by, I saw the big bearded guy who’d come in with Baby and Kitty. He was still sitting in the same booth with a cup of coffee in front of him. He’d fallen asleep; I figured I’d do him a favor, so I shook him by the shoulder. “Not a good idea to nap in here,” I said. “You could lose your wallet. Or something. I can call for a cab if you like.”

I shook him twice more before I realized that this man was not going to wake up. Ever. “Yaa alam, yaa nas!” I muttered. That was “O world, O people!” a phrase I saved for those times when every force under Heaven was conspiring against me.

I must’ve been at least partly sober, because I did something right for a change. I sat in the booth beside the poor dead guy, and I unclipped my phone from my belt. I called Friedlander Bey’s house and spoke to Tariq, Papa’s valet. I told him exactly what had happened. He instructed me to do just what I was doing, not let anyone else know about the situation, and wait twenty minutes before calling the police.

It was the better part of an hour before the cops actually arrived. If I’d been smart, I would’ve laid off the white deaths, at least until after they’d taken my statement. Well, sure, it’s easy enough to say that now. That night I figured another drink or two couldn’t make things any worse.

So it had to be almost two in the morning when a softclothes guy and a uniform came in. I recognized the uniform — it was Sergeant Catavina, who had taken corruption to such a high level, he might as well have been honest. I mean, with Catavina you knew exactly how he’d react to any situation, so in an odd sort of way he was completely dependable. He was easier to deal with than someone who changed the rules as he went along.

Catavina didn’t have much to do though. He was along to make sure no one left before Detective ibn Tali said they could leave. I’d never met ibn Tali before, but I knew there’d been a big shakeup in the police department, particularly in the copshop that oversaw activities in the Budayeen. The previous man in charge there, a real motherfucker by the name of Hajjar, had come to a bad end at the hands of an unruly mob. I’d had a little to do with that, and I hoped the current lieutenant, whoever he was, didn’t hold it against me.

Because I’d discovered the body and because I’d phoned the police, ibn Tali wanted to talk with me first. That was just fine, because by then I really wanted to get out of the club and go home. I told the detective everything I could remember about the party from the time we closed Chiriga’s at ten o’clock. I mentioned that I’d never seen the victim before, that he’d come in with Baby and Kitty, that the two girls had left to seek their fortune elsewhere before he’d turned stiff, and that I couldn’t imagine anyone at the party had any sort of motive to kill the poor bastard in the first place.

Ibn Tali jotted that all down in his notebook. “I’m gonna listen to everybody else’s story,” he said. “Then I’m gonna come back to you, and you’re gonna tell me yours all over again. That’ll give you a chance to put in the little bits you forgot about the first time through.”

“Excuse me, officer.” A very sleepy looking man in a pale yellow gallebeya and plain white checked keffiya had come up to the booth where we were sitting. I wondered how he’d gotten past Sergeant Catavina.

“It’s detective,” ibn Tali said, “not officer. And wait your turn. We’re all gonna be here for a long time, so just make yourself comfortable.”

The newcomer shoved a sheet of paper at ibn Tali. It must’ve been a magic sheet of paper, because as he read it, the detective’s face became more and more unhappy. Ibn Tali stood up, and the two men moved away a few feet and conferred in low voices. The detective shook his head, the yellow gallebeya insisted. This went on for a minute or two. At last, ibn Tali looked disgusted, muttered something under his breath, and turned back to me.

“Audran,” he said, “this guy’s from the city. High up in the city, one of the amir’s special assistants. He’s tellin’ me you can go home now. Thank Friedlander Bey for that when you see him; but look, I ain’t done with you. I hear you’re goin’ into the hospital today, so I’ll probably be there waitin’ when the anesthetic wears off.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it, detective.” I stood up, and I almost passed out right in front of everybody. That was the last thing I remembered about last night.

No wonder Kmuzu was treating me with such badly concealed disdain. I had been pathetic last night, and it was my bad luck to be in that shape during a moment of crisis. Now, sober again, I was frankly humiliated, and I didn’t need any more of Kmuzu’s silent disregard. I felt like standing under the shower and letting the hot water beat down on me for half an hour.

“Yaa Sidi,” he said, “before you — “

I waved at him. “Later, Kmuzu. Let me get cleaned up.”

“Wait, yaa Sidi! There’s — “

I went into the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was going to have to stop doing that; I looked as terrible as I felt. Then I saw that I couldn’t take a shower, because the bathtub was already filled, with steaming warm water and bubbles.

And in the bubbles, relaxing luxuriously, was Abdul-Hassan, the American kid. When he saw me, he gave me a slow, languorous smile.

Kmuzu had warned me — “It gets worse.” I wished it would stop getting worse pretty goddamn soon.