14

 

 

I SPENT ALMOST A WEEK in the hospital. I watched the holoset and got a lot of reading done, and despite my wishes a few people came to see me—Lily, the sexchange who had a crush on me, Chiri, Yasmin. There were two surprises: the first was a basket of fruit from Umar Abdul-Qawy; the second was a visit from six total strangers, people who lived in the Budayeen and the neighborhood around the copshop. Among them I recognized the young woman with the baby to whom I'd given some money, that day Shaknahyi and I had been sent to look for On Cheung.

She seemed just as shy and embarrassed as she had when she'd approached me in the street. "O Shaykh," she said in a trembling voice, setting a cloth-covered basket on my tray table, "we all beseech Allah for your recovery."

"Must be working," I said, smiling, "because the doctor says I'll be out of here today."

"Praise God," said the woman. She turned to the others who'd come with her. "These people are the parents of children, the children who call to you in the streets and at the police station house. They are grateful for your generosity."

These men and women lived in the kind of poverty I'd known most of my life. The odd thing was that they didn't show any petulance toward me. It may seem ungrateful, but sometimes you resent your benefactors. When I was young, I'd learned how humiliating it can be to take charity, especially when you're so desperate that you can't afford the luxury of pride.

It all depends on the attitude of the givers. I'll never forget how-much I hated Christmas as a kid in Algiers. Christians in the neighborhood used to put together baskets of food for my mother, my baby brother, and me. Then they'd come by our shabby apartment and stand around beaming at us, proud of their good deeds. They'd look from my mother to Hussain to me, waiting until we'd acted appropriately grateful. How many times I wished that we weren't so hungry, that we could just throw those goddamn canned goods back in their faces!

I was afraid these parents might feel the same way about me. I wanted them to know that they didn't have to go through any forelock-tugging acts of appreciation for my benefit.

"I'm glad to help, my friends," I said. "But, really, I got my own selfish motives. In the noble Qur'ân it says 'That which you spend for good must go to parents and near kindred and orphans and the needy and the wayfarer. And whatever good ye do, lo! Allah is aware of it.' So maybe if I kick a few kiam to a worthy cause, it'll make up for the night I stayed up partying with the blond twins from Hamburg."

I saw a couple of my visitors smile. That let me relax a little. "Even so," said the young mother, "we thank you."

"Less than a year ago, I wasn't doing so well myself. Sometimes I was eating only every other day. There were times when I didn't have a home to go to, and I slept in parks and abandoned buildings. I been lucky since, and I'm just returning a favor. I remember how much kindness everyone showed me when I was broke." Actually, practically none of that was true, but it sure was gracious as all hell.

"We'll leave you now, O Shaykh," said the woman. "You probably need your rest. We just wanted to let you know, if there's anything we can do for you, it would give us much happiness."

I studied her closely, wondering if she meant what she said. "As it happens, I'm looking for two guys," I said. "On Cheung the baby seller, and this killer, Paul Jawarski. If anyone's got any information, I'd be very grateful."

I saw them exchange uneasy glances. No one said anything. It 

was just as I expected. "Allah grant you peace and well-being, Shaykh Marîd al-Amin," murmured the woman, backing toward the door.      

I'd earned an epithet! She'd called me Marîd the Trustworthy. "Allah yisallimak," I replied. I was glad when they left.

About an hour later, a nurse came in and told me that my 

doctor had signed my release from the hospital. That was fine 

with me. I called Kmuzu, and he brought me some clean clothes. 

My skin was still very tender and it hurit to get dressed, but I was 

just glad to be going home.      

"The American, Morgan, wishes to see you, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "He says he has something to tell you."

"Sounds like good news," I said. I got into the electric sedan, and Kmuzu closed the passenger door. Then he went around and got in behind the steering wheel.

"You also have some business matters to take care of. There is a considerable amount of money on your desk."

"Uh yeah, I guess so." There should be two fat pay envelopes from Friedlander Bey, plus my share of the take from Chiri's.

Kmuzu let his glance slide over to me. "Do you have any plans for that money, yaa Sidi?" he asked.

I smiled at him. "What, you got a horse you want me to back?"

Kmuzu frowned. No sense of humor, I recalled. "Your wealth has grown large. With the money that came while you were in the hospital, you have more than a hundred thousand kiam, yaa Sidi. Much good could be done with that great a sum."

"Didn't know you were keeping such close tabs on my bank balance, Kmuzu." He was such a friend sometimes, I tended to forget that he was really only a spy. "I had some ideas about putting the money to good use. A free clinic in the Budayeen, maybe, or a soup kitchen."

I'd really startled him. "That's wonderful and unexpected!" he said. "I heartily approve."

"I'm so glad," I said sourly. I really had been thinking along those lines, but I didn't know how to begin. "How'd you like to study the feasibility? All my time is taken up with this Abu Adil-Jawarski thing."

"I would be more than happy. I don't think you have enough to fund a clinic, yaa Sidi, but providing hot meals to the poor, that is a worthy gesture."

"I hope it's more than just a gesture. Let me know when you have some plans and figures for me to look at." The nice part of all this was that it would keep Kmuzu busy and out of my hair for a while.

When I went into the house, Youssef grinned and gave me a bow. "Welcome home, O Shaykh!" he said. He insisted on wrestling my suitcase away from Kmuzu. The two of them followed me down the corridor.

"Your apartment is still being rebuilt, yaa Sidi, " said Kmuzu. "I've made us comfortable in a suite in the east wing. On the first floor, away from your mother and Umm Saad."

"Thank you, Kmuzu." I was already thinking about the work I had to do. I couldn't take any more time off to recuperate. "Is Morgan here now, or do I have to call him?"

"He's in the antechamber of the office," said Youssef. "Is that all right?"

"Fine. Youssef, why don't you give that suitcase back to Kmuzu. He can carry it to our temporary apartment. I want you to let me into Friedlander Bey's inner office. You don't think he'd mind if I used it while he's in the hospital, do you?"

Youssef thought about that for a moment. "No," he said slowly, "I don't see any problem."

I smiled. "Good. I'm gonna have to take care of his business until he's healthy again."

"Then I'll leave you, yaa Sidi, " said Kmuzu. "May I begin working on our charity project?"

"As soon as possible," I said. "Go in safety."

"God be with you," said Kmuzu. He turned toward the servants' wing. I went on with Youssef to Papa's private office.

Youssef paused at the threshold. "Shall I send the American in?" he asked.

"No," I said, "let him wait a couple of minutes. I need my English-language add-on, or I won't understand a word he says. Would you mind fetching it?" I told him where to find it. "Then when you come back, you can show Morgan in."

"Of course, O Shaykh." Youssef hurried away to do my bidding.

I felt an unpleasant thrill when I sat in Friedlander Bey's chair, as if I'd occupied a place of unholy strength. I didn't like the feeling at all. For one thing, I had no desire to step into the role of Junior Crime Lord, or even the more legitimate office of International Power Broker. I was at Papa's feet now; but if, Allah forbid, something terminal were to happen to him, I wouldn't hang around to be anointed as his successor. I had other plans for my future.

I glanced through the papers on Papa's desk for a few minutes, finding nothing racy or incriminating. I was about to start rummaging through the drawers when Youssef returned. "I've brought the entire rack, yaa Sidi, " he said.

"Thank you, Youssef. Please show Morgan in now."

"Yes, O Shaykh." I was getting to like all this subservience, but that was a bad sign.

I chipped in the English daddy just as the big, blond American came in. "Where y'at, man?" he said, grinning. "I never been here before. You got a nice place."

"Friedlander Bey's got a nice place," I said, indicating that Morgan should make himself comfortable. "I'm just his errand boy."

"Whatever you say. Now, you want to hear what I got?"

I leaned back in the chair. "Where's Jawarski?" I said.

Morgan's grin disappeared. "Still don't know, man. I got the word out to everybody, but I haven't heard a clue. I don't think he's left the city. He's here somewhere, but he's done a damn good job of evaporating."

"Yeah, you right. So what's the good news?"

He rubbed his stubbly chin. "I know somebody who knows somebody who works for some business front that's owned by Reda Abu Adil. It's a shady package delivery service. Anyway, this guy my friend knows says he heard somebody else say that this Paul Jawarski wanted his money. Seems like your friend Abu Adil arranged to make it easy for Jawarski to blast his way out of the pokey."

"A couple of guards died on account of it, but I don't suppose that bothers Abu Adil none."

"I suppose not. So Abu Adil hired Jawarski through this delivery company to come to the city. I don't know what Abu Adil wanted, but you know what Jawarski's specialty is. This friend of mine calls it the Jawarski Finishing School."

"And now Abu Adil is making sure Jawarski stays unstumbled on, right?"

"The way I figure it."

I closed my eyes and thought about it. It made perfect sense. I didn't have hard evidence that Abu Adil had hired Jawarski to kill Shaknahyi, but in my heart I knew it was true. I also knew Jawarski had killed Blanca and the others in Shaknahyi's notebook. And because Lieutenant Hajjar was two-timing both Friedlander Bey and the halls of justice, I was pretty confident that the police were never going to dig Jawarski up. Even if they did, Jawarski would never be prosecuted.

I opened my eyes and stared at Morgan. "Just keep looking, buddy," I said, "because I don't think anybody else is."

"Money?"

I blinked at him. "What?" 

"You got any money for me?"

I stood up angrily. "No, I ain't got money for you! I told you I'd pay you another five hundred when you found Jawarski. That's the deal."

Morgan stood up. "All right, man, just take it easy, okay?"

I was embarrassed by my outburst. "I'm sorry, Morgan," I said. "I'm not mad at you. This whole business is making me crazy."

"Uh yeah. I know you were good friends with Shaknahyi. All right, I'll keep at it."

"Thanks, Morgan." I followed him out of the office and showed him to the front door. "We're not gonna let them get away with it."

"Crime don't pay, right, man?" Morgan grinned and slapped my burned shoulder. The pain made me wince.

"Yeah, you right." I walked with him down the curving gravel driveway. I wanted to get away from the house, and if I left right now, I could escape without Kmuzu tagging along. "Like a ride to the Budayeen?" I asked.

"No, that's all right. I got some other stuff to do, man. See you later."

I turned back toward the house and got the car out of the garage. I thought I'd drop in on my club and see if it was still in one piece.

The day shift was still on, and there were only five or six customers. Indihar frowned and looked away when I caught her eye. I decided to sit at a table, rather than at my usual place at the bar. Pualani came up to say hello. "Want a White Death?" she asked.

"White Death? What's that?"

She shrugged her slender shoulders. "Oh, that's what Chiri calls that awful gin and bingara thing you drink." She grimaced.

"Yeah, bring me a White Death." It wasn't a bad name.

Brandi was on stage, dancing to the Sikh propaganda music that had suddenly become wildly popular. I hated it a lot. I didn't want to listen to political rantings, even if it had a great beat and a catchy two-bar figure.

"Here you go, boss," said Pualani, dropping a cocktail napkin in front of me and pinning it in place with a highball glass. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Huh? Oh, sure."

"Want to ask you about something. I'm thinkin' of, you know, havin' my brain wired so I can use moddies?" She cocked her head to the side and peered at me, as if I might not comprehend what she was telling me. She didn't say anything more.

"Yeah," I said at last. You had to respond like that with Pualani or you could spend the rest of your life trapped in the same conversation.

"Well, everybody says you know more'n anybody about it. I was wonderin' if you could, like, recommend somebody?" 

"A surgeon?" 

"Uh huh."

"Well, there's plenty of doctors around who'll do it for you. Most of 'em are pretty reliable."

Pualani gave me a pretty frown. "Well, I was wonderin' if I could go to your doctor and use your name."

"Dr. Lisân doesn't have a private practice. But his assistant, Dr. Yeniknani, is a good man."

Pualani squinted at me. "Would you write his name down for me?"

"Sure." I scribbled the name and commcode on the cocktail napkin.

"And also," she said, "does he do tits?"

"I don't think so, honey." Now Pualani had already spent a small fortune modifying her body. She had a cute ass that had been rounded with silicone, and cheekbones accentuated with silicone, and her chin and nose reshaped, and she'd already had breast implants. She had a devastating figure, and I thought it was a mistake to blow up her bust any more; but I'd learned a long time ago that you can't reason with dancers when it comes to breast size.

"Oh, okay," she said, obviously disappointed. I took a sip of my White Death. Pualani showed no sign of going away. I waited for her to continue. "You know Indihar?" she said.

"Sure."

"Well, she's havin' a lot of trouble. She's really broke."

"I tried giving her a loan, but she wouldn't take it."

Pualani shook her head. "No, she won't take a loan. But maybe you could help her out some other way." Then she got up and wandered toward the front of the club, and sat down next to a couple of Oriental men wearing sailor's caps.

Sometimes I just wished real life would leave me alone. I gulped a little more of my drink, then stood up and went to the bar. Indihar noticed me and came over. "Get you something, Marîd?" she asked.

"Jirji's pension ain't gonna help you very much, right?"

She gave me an annoyed look and turned away. She headed for the other end of the bar. "Don't want your money," she said.

I followed her. "I'm not offering money. How would you like a low-hassle job where you can live free and watch your kids all day? You wouldn't have to pay a babysitter."

She turned around. "What's this all about?" Her expression was mistrustful.

I smiled. "I mean bringing Little Jirji, Zahra, and Hakim and moving into one of the empty apartments in Papa's house. Save you a lot of money every month, Indihar."

She considered that. "Maybe. Why would you want me in Papa's house?"

I had to come up with some phony but real-sounding reason. "It's my mother. I need someone to keep an eye on her. I'd be willing to pay you whatever you wanted."

Indihar patted the bar with one hand. "Already got a job, remember?"

"Hey," I said, "if that's the problem, you're fired."

Her face lost its color. "The hell you talking about?"

"Think about it, Indihar. I'm offering you a nice home, free rent and meals, plus good money every week for a part-time job making sure my mom doesn't do anything crazy. Your kids'll be taken care of and you won't have to come into this bar every day. You won't have to take your clothes off and dance, and you won't have to deal with the drunk jerks and the lazy-ass girls like Brandi."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'll let you know, Marîd," she said. "Soon as I figure out what kind of hustle you're trying to pull. Sounds too good to be straight, sweetheart. I mean, you're not wearing a Santa Claus moddy or nothing."

"Yeah, you think about it. Talk it over with Chiri. You trust her. See what she thinks."

Indihar nodded. She was still watching me uncertainly. "Even if I say yes," she said, "I'm not gonna fuck you."

I sighed. "Yeah, you right." I went back to my table. A minute after I sat down again, Fuad il-Manhous let himself drop into the other chair. "I woke up the other day," he said in his high-pitched, nasal voice, "and my mama says to me, 'Fuad, we don't have no money, go out and take one of the chickens and sell it.' "

He was starting one of his dumb fables. He was so desperate for attention that he'd make himself look like a total fool just to make me laugh. The sad thing was that even his most fantastic stories were based on Fuad's actual fuck-ups.

He looked at me closely, to make sure I understood him so far. "So I did. I went out to my mama's chicken coop and I chased those chickens around and around till I caught one. Then I carried it down the hill and up the hill and over the bridge and through the streets till I came to the Souk of the Poultry Dressers. Well, I never took a chicken to market before, so I didn't know what to do. I stood there in the middle of the square all day, until I saw the merchants locking their money up in boxes and loading their leftover stuff onto their carts. I'd already heard the sunset call to prayer, so I knew I didn't have much time.

"I took my chicken to one of the men and told him I wanted to sell it, and he looked at it and shook his head. This chicken has lost all it's teeth,' he says.

"So I looked at it, and by Allah, he was right. That chicken didn't have a tooth in its head. So I says, 'What will you give me for it?' And the man gave me a handful of copper fîqs.

"Then I walked home with one hand in my pocket and my other hand holding the copper fîqs. Just when I was crossing the bridge over the drainage canal, there was this fierce swarm of gnats. I started waving my hands and swatting them, and then I ran the rest of the way across the bridge. When I got to the other side, I looked and I saw that I didn't have the money anymore. I'd dropped all the coins into the canal."

Fuad coughed quietly. "Can I have a glass of beer, Marîd?" he asked. "I'm getting real thirsty."

I signaled to Indihar to draw one. "You paying for this, Fuad?" I said. His long face fell further. He looked like a puppy about to get a beating. "Just kidding," I said. "The beer's on the house. I want to hear how this story comes out."

Indihar set a mug in front of him, then stood around to hear the rest of the story. "Bismillah, " murmured Fuad, and he took a long gulp. Then he set the beer down, gave me a quick, thankful grimace, and started again. "Anyway," he said, "when I got home, my mama was real mad. I didn't have no chicken and I didn't have no money. 'Next time,' she says, 'put it in your pocket.'

" 'Ah,' I go, T should have thought of that.' So the next morning, my mama wakes me up and tells me to take another chicken to the souk. Well, I got dressed and went out and chased them around some more and caught one and carried it down the hill and up the hill and across the bridge and through the streets to the souk. And this time I didn't stand in the hot sun all morning and all afternoon. I went right up to the merchant and showed him the second chicken.

" 'This one looks as bad as the one you brought yesterday,' he says. 'And besides, I'll have to provide space for it here in my stall all day. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a big jug of honey in trade. It's very fine honey.'"

"Well, it was a good trade because my mama had four other chickens, but she didn't have no honey. So I took the jug of honey from him and started home. I'd just crossed the bridge when I remembered what my mama told me. I opened the jug and poured the honey in my pocket. By the time I climbed the last hill, it was all gone.

"So my mama was real mad again. 'Next time,' she says, 'balance it on your head.'

" 'Ah,' I go, T should have thought of that.' On the third morning, I got up and caught another chicken, and carried it to the souk and brought it to the merchant.

" 'Are all your chickens in such bad shape?' he says. 'Well, in the name of Allah, I will give you my supper for this bird.' And the merchant gave me a mess of curds and whey.

"Well, I remembered what my mama told me, and I balanced it on my head. I went through the streets and across the bridge and down the hill and up the hill. When I got home, my mama asked me what I got for the chicken. 'Enough curds and whey for our evening meal,' I go.

" 'Then where is it?' she says.

" 'On my head,' I go. She took one look and dragged me to the washstand. She poured a whole pitcher of cold water over my head and scrubbed my hair with a stiff brush. All the time she was shouting and blaming me for losing the curds and whey.

" 'Next time, carry it carefully in your hands,' she says.

" 'Ah,' I go, T should have thought of that.' So the next morning, very early before the sun came up, I went out to the chicken coop and chose the nicest, fattest chicken that was left. I left the house before my mama woke up, and I carried the chicken down the hill and through the streets to the Souk of the Poultry Dressers.

" 'Good morning, my friend,' says the merchant. 'I see you have another aged, toothless chicken.'

" 'This is a very nice chicken,' I go, 'and I want what it's worth and nothing less.'

"The merchant looked at the chicken closely and mumbled to himself. 'You know,' he says at last, 'these feathers are stuck on very tight.'

" 'Isn't that how they're supposed to be?' I go. 

"He pointed to a row of dead chickens with their heads cut off. 'See any feathers on these?' 

" 'No,' I go.

" 'Ever eat a roast chicken with feathers?' 

" 'No,' I go.

" 'Then I'm sorry. It will cost me much time and labor to unstick all these feathers. I can only offer you this big fierce tomcat.'

"I thought that was a good trade, because the tomcat would catch the mice and rats that crept into the coop and stole the chicken feed. I remembered what my mama had told me, and I tried to carry the tomcat carefully in my hands. Just after I went down the hill and before I went up the hill, the tomcat snarled and spit and squirmed and scratched until I couldn't hold him any longer. He jumped out of my hands and ran away.

"I knew my mama was gonna be mad again. 'Next time,' she says, 'tie him with a string and pull him behind you.'

" 'Ah,' I go, 'I should have thought of that.' Now, there's only two chickens left, so it took me longer to catch one the next morning, even though I didn't even care which one it was. When I got to the souk, the merchant was very glad to see me.

" 'Praise Allah that we are both well this morning,' he says, smiling at me. 'I see you have a chicken.'

" 'Yeah, you right,' I go. I laid the chicken on the warped board he used for a counter.

"The merchant picked up the chicken and weighed it in his hands, and thumped it with his finger like you'd thump a melon. 'This chicken doesn't lay eggs, does it?' he asks.

" 'Sure, it lavs eggs! It's the best egg-laying hen my mama ever had.'

"The man shook his head and frowned. 'You see,' he says, 'that's a problem. Every egg this chicken lays, that's less meat on its bones. This might've been a nice heavy chicken if it hadn't laid no eggs. It's a good thing you brought it to me now, before it shrunk away to nothing.'

" 'All the eggs ought to be worth something,' I go.

" 'I don't see no eggs. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll trade you this killed, cleaned chicken ready to eat for your egg-laying chicken. You won't find a better deal than that from any of these other poultry dressers. Once they hear this chicken is such a good egg-layer, they won't give you two copper fîqs.'

"I was just glad this man had taken a liking to me, because he was telling me things none of the other merchants would've told me. So I traded my worthless egg-layer for his dressed chicken, even though to me it looked a little scrawny and smelled funny and was kind of the wrong color. I remembered what my mama told me, so I tied a string around it and pulled it along behind me as I walked home.

"You should've heard my mama yelling at me when I got home! That poor plucked chicken was completely ruined. 'By the life of my eyes!' she shouted. 'You are the biggest fool in all the lands of Islam! Next time, carry it on your shoulder!'

" 'Ah,' I go, 'I should have thought of that.'

"So there was one chicken left, and I promised myself that I was gonna get the better of the deal the next day. Again I didn't wait for my mama to wake me. I rose early, scrubbed my face and hands, put on my best suit of clothes, and went out to the coop. It took me an hour to catch that last chicken, which had always been my mama's favorite. It's name was Mouna. Finally I got my hands on its thrashing, flapping body. I carried it out of the chicken coop, down the hill, up the hill, across the bridge, through the streets to the souk.

"But this morning the poultry dresser was not in his stall. I stood there for several minutes, wondering where my friend could be. Finally, a girl came up to me. She was dressed as a modest Muslim woman should be dressed, and I couldn't see her face because of the veil; but when she spoke, I knew from her voice that she probably was the most beautiful girl I'd ever met."

"You can get yourself in a lot of trouble that way," I told Fuad. "I've made the mistake of falling in love over the telephone. More than once."

He frowned at the interruption and went on. "She was probably the most beautiful girl I'd ever met. Anyway, she says, 'Are you the gentleman who has been trading his chickens with my father every morning?'

"I go, 'I'm not sure. I don't know who your father is. Is this his poultry stall?' She says it is. I go, 'Then I'm that gentleman, and I have our last chicken right here. Where's your father this morning?'

"Big bright tears collect in the corners of her eyes. She looks up at me with a pitiful expression on her face, at least the part of it I can see. 'My father is desperately ill,' she says. 'The doctor doesn't expect him to live through the day.'

"Well, I was shocked by the news. 'May Allah have mercy on your father, and grant him health. If he dies, I'll have to sell my chicken to someone else today.'

"The girl didn't say anything for a moment. I don't think she really cared what happened to my chicken. At last she said, 'My father sent me here this morning to find you. His conscience is troubling him. He says that he traded unfairly with you, and he wishes to make up for it before he is called to the bosom of Allah. He begs that you accept his donkey, the very donkey that faithfully pulled my father's cart for ten years.'

"I was a little suspicious about this offer. After all, I didn't know this girl as well as I knew her father. 'Let me get this straight,' I go. 'You want to trade your fine donkey for this chicken?'

" 'Yes,' she says.

" 'I'll have to think it over. It's our last chicken, you know.' I thought about it and thought about it, but I couldn't see anything that would make my mama mad. I was sure that finally she'd be happy about one of my trades. 'All right,' I go, and I grabbed the donkey's rope halter. 'Take the chicken, and tell your father that I will pray for his well-being. May he return tomorrow to his stall in this souk, inshallah,'

" Inshallah,' the girl says, and she lowered her eyes to the ground. She went away with my mama's last chicken, and I never saw her again. I think about her a lot, though, because she's probably the only woman I'll ever love."

"Yeah, you right," I said, laughing. Fuad has this thing for mean hookers, the kind who carry straight razors. You can find him every night over at the Red Light Lounge, Fatima and Nassir's place. Nobody else I know even has the guts to go in there alone. Fuad spends a lot of time in there, falling in love and getting ripped off.

"Anyway," he said, "I started leading the donkey home, when I remembered what my mama told me. So I strained and pushed and lifted until I got that donkey to my shoulders. I got to admit, I really didn't know why my mama wanted me to carry it that way, when it could walk by itself just as well as I could. Still, I didn't want her mad at me anymore.

"I staggered toward home with the donkey across my back, and as I climbed down the hill, I passed the beautiful walled palace of Shaykh Salman Mubarak. Now, you know Shaykh Salman lived in that great mansion with his beautiful daughter, who was sixteen years old and had never laughed from the time she'd been born. She had never even smiled. She could talk all right, but she just didn't. Nobody, not even her wealthy father, had ever heard her say a single word since the shaykh's wife, the girl's mother, had died when the girl was three years old. The doctors said that if anyone could make her laugh, she'd be able to speak again; or if anyone could make her speak, she'd then laugh as any normal person might. Shaykh Salman had made the usual offers of riches and his daughter's hand in marriage, but suitor after suitor had tried and failed. The girl just sat glumly by the window, watching the world pass by below.

"That's when I happened to walk by carrying the donkey. It must have looked pretty weird, upside down on my back with its hooves waving in the air. I was told later that the shaykh's beautiful daughter stared at me and the donkey for a few seconds, and then burst out into a helpless fit of laughter. She recovered her speech then too, because she called loudly for her father to come look. The shaykh was so grateful, he ran out into the road to meet me."

"Did he give you his daughter?" asked Indihar. 

"You bet," said Fuad. 

"How romantic," she said.

"And when I married her, I became the richest man in the city after the shaykh himself. And my mother was quite pleased, and didn't mind that she had no chickens left at all. She came to live with my wife and me in the shaykh's palace."

I sighed. "How much of that was true, Fuad?" I asked.

"Oh," he said, "I forgot a part. It turns out that the shaykh was really the poultry dresser, who went to the souk every morning. I don't remember the reason why. And so the veiled girl was just as beautiful as I thought she'd be."

Indihar reached over and grabbed Fuad's half-full mug of beer. She raised it to her lips and finished it off. "I thought the poultry dresser was dying," she said.

Fuad frowned in serious thought. "Yeah, well, he was, see, but when he heard his daughter laughing and calling his name, he was miraculously healed."

"All praise to Allah, Fount of blessings," I said.

"I made up that part about Shaykh Salman and his beautiful daughter," said Fuad.

"Uh huh," said Indihar. "You and your mama really raise chickens?"

"Oh sure," he said eagerly, "but we don't got any right at the moment."

"Because you traded them?"

"I told my mama we should start again with younger chickens that still got their teeth."

"Thank God, I have to go mop up the spilled beer," said Indihar. She went back behind the bar.

I drained the last of my White Death. After Fuad's story, I wanted three or four more drinks. "Another beer?" I asked him.

He stood up. "Thanks, Marid, but I got to make some money. I want to buy a gold chain for this girl."

"Why don't you give her one of the ones you try selling to the tourists?"

He looked horrified. "She'd scratch my eyes out!" he said. It sounded like he'd found another hot-blooded sweetheart. "By the way, the Half-Hajj said I should show you this." He pulled something out of his pocket and dropped it in front of me.

I picked it up. It was heavy, shiny, and made of steel, about six inches long. I'd never held one in my hand before, but I knew what it was: an empty clip from an automatic pistol.

Not many people used the old projectile weapons anymore, but Paul Jawarski used a .45 caliber gun. That's what this came from.

"Where'd you get this, Fuad?" I asked casually, turning the clip over in my hands.

"Oh, in the alley behind Gay Che's. Sometimes you can find money there, it falls out of their pockets when they go out into the alley. I showed it to Saied first, and he said you'd like to see it."

"Uh huh. I never heard of Gay Che's."

"You wouldn't like it. It's a tough place. I don't ever go in there. I just hang around in the alley."

"Sounds smart. Where is it?"

Fuad closed one eye and looked thoughtful. "Hâmidiyya. On Aknouli Street."

Hâmidiyya. Reda Abu Adil's little kingdom. "Now, why did Saied think I'd want to know about this?" I asked.

Fuad shrugged. "He didn't tell me. Did you? Want to see it, I mean?"

"Yeah, thanks, Fuad. I owe you one." 

"Really? Then maybe—"

"Another time, Fuad." I made a distracted, dismissing motion with my hand. I guess he took the hint, because in a little while I noticed he was gone. I had a lot to think about: Was this a clue? Was Paul Jawarski hiding out in one of Abu Adil's crummier enterprises? Or was it some kind of a trap baited by Saied the Half-Hajj, who couldn't know that I no longer trusted him?

I didn't have any choice. Trap or not, I was going to follow it up. But not just yet.