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8

Friedlander Bey lived in a large, white, towered mansion that might almost have qualified as a palace. It was a large estate in the middle of the city only two blocks from the Christian Quarter. I don’t think anyone else had such a great expanse of property walled off. Papa’s house made Seipolt’s look like a Badawi tent. But Sergeant Hajjar didn’t drive me to Papa’s house: we were going in the wrong direction. I mentioned this to Hajjar, the bastard.

“Let me do the driving,” he said in a surly voice. He called me “il-Maghrib.” Maghrib may mean sunset, but it also refers to the vast, vague part of North Africa to the west, where the uncivilized idiots come from—Algerians, Moroccans, semihuman creatures like that. Lots of my friends will call me il-Maghrib, or Maghrebi, and then it’s only a nickname or an epithet; when Hajjar used it, it was definitely an insult.

“The house is back the other way about two and a half miles,” I said.

“Don’t you think I know that? Jesus Christ, would I love to have you handcuffed to a pole for fifteen minutes.”

“Where on Allah’s good, green earth are you taking me?”

Hajjar wouldn’t answer any more questions, so I just gave up and watched the city go by. Riding with Hajjar was a lot like riding with Bill: you didn’t learn very much and you weren’t sure where you were going or how you were going to get there.

The cop pulled into an asphalt driveway behind a cinder-block motel on the eastern outskirts of the city. The cinder blocks were painted a pale green, and there was a small handlettered sign that said simply motel no vacancy. I thought a motel with a permanent No Vacancy sign was a trifle unusual. Hajjar got out of the cop car and opened the back door. I slid out and stretched a little; the tri-phets had me humming in a high-velocity way. The combination of the drugs and my nervousness added up to a headache, a very sick stomach, and fidgeting that flirted with total emotional collapse.

I followed Hajjar to room nineteen of the motel. He rapped on the door in some kind of signal. The door was opened by a hulking Arab who looked like a block of sandstone that walked. I didn’t expect him to be able to talk or think; when he did, I was astonished. He nodded to Hajjar, who didn’t acknowledge it; the sergeant went back toward his car. The Stone looked at me for a moment, probably wondering where I’d come from; then he realized that I must have come with Hajjar, and that I was the one he was waiting to let into the damn motel room. “In,” he said. His voice sounded like sandstone that spoke.

I shuddered as I passed by him. There were two more men in the room, another Stone That Speaks on the far side, and Friedlander Bey, sitting at a folding table set up between the king-sized bed and the bureau. All the furnishings were European, but a little worn and shabby.

Papa stood when he saw me come in. He was about five feet two inches tall, but almost two hundred pounds. He wore a plain, white cotton shirt, gray trousers, and slippers. He wore no jewelry. He had a few wisps of graying hair brushed straight back on his head, and soft brown eyes. Friedlander Bey didn’t look like the most powerful man in the city. He raised his right hand in front of his face, almost touching his forehead. “Peace,” he said.

I touched my heart and my lips. “And on you be peace.”

He did not look happy to see me. The formalities would protect me for a short while and give me time to think. What I needed to plan was a way to bowl over the two Stones and get out of that motel room. It was going to be a challenge.

Papa seated himself at the table again. “May your day be prosperous,” he said. He indicated the chair across from him.

“May your day be prosperous and blessed,” I said. As soon as I could, I was going to ask for a glass of water, and take as many Paxium as I had with me. I sat down.

His brown eyes caught mine and held them. “How is your health?” he asked. His voice was unfriendly.

“Praise Allah,” I said. I felt the fear growing.

“We have not seen you in some time,” said Friedlander Bey. “You have made us lonely.”

“May Allah never let you feel lonely.”

The second Stone served coffee. Papa took a cup and sipped from it to show me it wasn’t poisoned. Then he handed it to me. “Be pleased,” he said. There was little hospitality in his voice.

I took the cup. “May coffee be found forever in your house.”

We drank some coffee together. Papa sat back and regarded me for a moment. “You have honored us,” he said at last.

“May Allah preserve you.” We had come to the end of the short form of the amenities. Things would begin to happen now. The first thing that happened was that I took out my pill case, dug up every tranquilizer I could find, and swallowed them with some more coffee. I took fourteen Paxium; some people would find that a large quantity. It wasn’t, for me. I know lots of people in the Budayeen who can drink me under the table—Yasmin, for one—but I bow to no one in my capacity for pills and caps. Fourteen 10-milligram Paxium, if I was lucky, would only unscrew the tension a little; they wouldn’t even begin to make me really tranquil. Right then, I’d need something with a little more velocity to it for that. Fourteen Paxium was barely Mach 1.

Friedlander Bey held out his coffee cup to his servant, who refilled it. Papa sipped a little of it, watching me over the rim of the small cup. He set it down precisely and said, “You understand that I have a great number of people in my employ.”

“Indeed yes, O Shaykh,” I said.

“A great number of people who depend on me, not only for their livelihoods, but for much more. I am a source of security in their difficult world. They know that they may depend on me for wages and certain favors, as long as they perform their work for me in a satisfactory way.”

“Yes, O Shaykh.” The blood drying on my face and arms irritated me.

He nodded. “So when I learn that one of my friends has, indeed, been welcomed by Allah into Paradise, I am distressed. I am concerned for the well-being of all who represent me in the city, from my trusted lieutenants down to the poorest and most insignificant beggar who aids me however he can.”

“You are the people’s shield against calamity, O Shaykh.”

He waved a hand, tired of my interruptions. “Death is one thing, my nephew. Death comes to all, there is no one who can run from it. The jar cannot remain whole forever. We must learn to accept our eventual demise; and more, we must look forward to our eternal delight and refreshment in Paradise. Yet death before death is due is unnatural. That is another thing completely; it is an affront to Allah, and must be set right. One cannot recall the dead to life, but one can avenge a murder. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, O Shaykh.” It hadn’t taken Friedlander Bey long to hear about Courvoisier Sonny’s premature end. Nassir probably called Papa even before he called the police.

“Then, let me put this question to you: How does one revenge a murder?”

There was a long, glacial silence. There was only one answer, but I took a while to frame my reply in my mind. “O Shaykh” I said at last, “a death must be met with another death. That is the only revenge. It is written in the Straight Path, ‘Retaliation is prescribed for you in the matter of the murdered’; and also, ‘One who attacketh you, attack him in like manner as he attacked you.’ But it also says elsewhere, ‘The life for the life, and the eye for the eye, and the nose for the nose, and the ear for the ear, and the tooth for the tooth, and for wounds retaliation. But whoso forgoeth it in the way of charity, it shall be expiation for him.’ I am innocent of this murder, O Shaykh, and to seek revenge wrongfully is a crime worse than the killing itself.”

“Allah is Most Great,” murmured Papa. He looked at me in surprise. “I had heard that you were an infidel, my nephew, and it caused me pain. Yet you have a certain knowledge of the noble Qur’ân.” He stood up from the table and rubbed his forehead with his right hand. Then he crossed to the large bed and laid down on the bedspread. I turned to face him, but a huge brown hand clamped itself on my shoulder and forced me to turn around again. I could only stare across the table, at Friedlander Bey’s empty chair. I could not see him, but I could hear him when he spoke. “I have been told that of all people in the Budayeen, you had most reason to want to murder this man.”

I thought back over the recent months; I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d even said hello to Sonny. I stayed out of the Red Light; I had nothing to do with the kind of debs, changes, and girls Sonny ran on the street; our circles of friends didn’t seem to intersect at all, except for Fuad il-Manhous—and Fuad was no friend of mine and, I’m sure, no friend of Sonny’s, either. Yet the Arab’s concept of revenge is as fully developed and patient as the Sicilian’s. Maybe Papa was thinking of some incident that had happened months, even years, ago, something I had forgotten completely, that could be construed as a motive to kill Sonny. “I had no reason at all,” I said shakily.

“I do not enjoy evasions, my nephew. It happens very often that I must ask someone these difficult questions, and he always begins by making evasive answers. This continues until one of my servants persuades him to stop. The next stage is a series of answers that do not sound so evasive, but are clearly lies. Once again, my guest must be persuaded not to waste valuable time this way.” His voice was tired and low. I tried to turn to face him again, and once more the huge hand grasped my shoulder, more painfully this time. Papa went on. “After a while, one is at last brought to the point where truth and cooperation seem far the most reasonable course, yet it often makes me sad to see in what state my guest is in when he makes this discovery. My advice, then, is to pass through evasion and lies quickly—better still, not at all—and proceed directly to truth. We will all benefit.”

The stone hand did not leave my shoulder. I felt as if my bones were slowly being crushed into white powder inside my skin. I made no sound.

“You owed this man a sum of money,” said Friedlander Bey. “You owe him no longer, because he is dead. I will collect that sum, my nephew, and I will do that which the Book allows.”

“I didn’t owe him any money!” I cried. “Not one goddamn fiq!”

A second stone hand began to crush my other shoulder. “The dog’s tail is still bent, O Lord,” murmured the Stone That Speaks.

“I do not lie,” I said, gasping a little. “If I tell you that I owed Sonny nothing, it is the truth. I am known everywhere in the city as one who does not lie.”

“It is true that I have never had cause to doubt you before, my nephew.”

“Perhaps he has found reasons to take up the practice, O Lord,” murmured the Stone That Speaks.

“Sonny?” said Friedlander Bey, returning to the table. “No one cares about Sonny. He is no friend of mine, or of anyone; to that I can attest. If he is dead, too, then it but makes the air over the Budayeen more pleasant to breathe. No, my nephew, I have asked you to join me here to talk about the murder of my friend, Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd.”

“Abdoulaye,” I said. The pain was immense; I was beginning to see little flecks of red before my eyes. My voice was hoarse and barely audible. “I did not even know that Abdoulaye was dead.”

Papa rubbed his forehead again. “There have been several deaths recendy among my friends. More deaths than is natural.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You must prove to me that you did not kill Abdoulaye. No one else has such a reason to wish him ill fortune.”

“And what reason do you think I have?”

“The obligation I mentioned. Abdoulaye was not well-loved, that is true; and he may well have been disliked, even hated. Yet everyone knew that he had my protection, and that a harmful thing done to him was a harmful thing done to me. His murderer will die, just as he died.”

I tried to raise my hand, but I could not. “How did he die?” I asked.

Papa looked at me through lowered eyelids. “You must tell me how he died.”

“I—” The stone hands left my shoulders; that only made the pain there get worse. Then I felt the fingers wrap themselves around my throat.

“Answer quickly,” said Papa gently, “or very soon you will not be able to answer at all, ever again.”

“Shot,” I croaked. “Once. Small lead bullet.”

Papa made a slight, flicking gesture with one hand; the stone fingers released my throat. “No, he was not shot. Yet two other people have been killed with just such an antique weapon in the last fortnight. It is interesting to me that you know of that matter. One of them was under my protection.” He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. His coarse, trembling hands played with his empty coffee cup.

The pain receded quickly, although my shoulders would be sore for days. “If he was not shot,” I said, “how was Abdoulaye murdered?”

His eyes jerked back to my face. “I am not yet certain that you are not his killer,” he said.

“You have said that I have the only motive, that I had an obligation to him. That obligation was paid several days ago. I owed him nothing.”

Papa’s eyes opened wider. “You have some proof?”

I rose out of my chair just a bit, to get the receipt that was still in my hip pocket. The stone hands returned to my shoulders instantly, but Papa waved them away again. “Hassan was there,” I said. “He’ll tell you.” I dug into my pocket and took out the paper, opened it, and passed it across the table. Friedlander Bey glanced at it, then studied it more closely. He looked beyond me, over my shoulder, and made a small motion with his head. I turned around, and the Stone had gone back to his post by the door.

“O Shaykh, if I may ask,” I said, “who is it that told you of this debt? Who suggested to you that I was Abdoulaye’s murderer? It must be someone who did not know that I paid the debt in full.”

The old man nodded slowly, opened his mouth as if to tell me, then thought better of it. “Ask no more questions,” he said.

I took a deep breath and let it out. I wasn’t out of this room safely yet; I had to remember that. I couldn’t feel anything from the Paxium. Those tranquilizers had been a goddamn waste of money.

Friedlander Bey looked down at his hands, which were toying again with his coffee cup. He signaled to the second Stone, who filled the cup with coffee. The servant looked at me, and I nodded; he gave me another cupful. “Where were you,” asked Papa, “about ten o’clock tonight?”

“I was in the Café Solace, playing cards.”

“Ah. What time did you begin playing cards?”

“About half past eight.”

“And you were in that café until midnight?”

I thought back a few hours. “It was about half past twelve when we all left the Solace and went over to the Red Light. Sonny was stabbed somewhere between one o’clock and one-thirty, I’d say.”

“Old Ibrihim at the Solace would not dispute your story?”

“No, he would not.”

Papa turned and nodded to the Stone That Speaks behind him. The Stone used the room’s telephone. A short time later, he came to the table and murmured in Papa’s ear. Papa sighed. “I’m very glad for you, my nephew, that you can account for those hours. Abdoulaye died between ten and eleven o’clock. I accept that you did not kill my friend.”

“Praise Allah the protector,” I said softly.

“So I will tell you how Abdoulaye died. His body was found by my subordinate, Hassan the Shiite. Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd was murdered in a most foul manner, my nephew. I hesitate to describe it, lest some evil spirit seize the notion and prepare the same fate for me.”

I recited Yasmin’s superstitious formula, and that pleased the old man. “May Allah preserve you, my nephew,” he said. “Abdoulaye lay in the alley behind Hassan’s shop, his throat slashed and blood smeared over him. There was little blood in the alley, however, so he was murdered in some other place and removed to the spot where Hassan found him. There were the horrible signs that he had been burned many times, on his chest, on his arms, on his legs, on his face, even upon his organs of procreation. When the police examined the body, Hassan learned that the filthy dog who murdered Abdoulaye had first used my friend’s body as a woman’s, in the mouth and in the forbidden place of the sodomite. Hassan was quite distraught, and had to be sedated.” Papa looked deeply agitated himself as he told me this, as if he had never seen or heard anything so profoundly unnerving. I knew that he had become accustomed to death, that he had caused people to die and that other people had died because of their association with him. Abdoulaye’s case, though, affected him passionately. It wasn’t really the killing; it was the absolute and appalling disregard for even the most elementary code of conscience. Friedlander Bey’s hands were shaking even worse than before.

“It is the same way that Tamiko was killed,” I said.

Papa looked at me, unable to speak for a moment. “How did you come to be in possession of that information?” he asked.

I could sense that he was playing again with the notion that I might be responsible tor these killings. I seemed to have facts and details that otherwise shouldn’t have been known to me. “I discovered Tami’s body,” I said. “I reported it to Lieutenant Okking.”

Papa nodded and looked down again. “I cannot tell you how filled with hatred I am,” he said. “It makes me grieve. I have tried to control such feelings, to live graciously as a prosperous man, if that is the will of Allah, and to give thanks for my wealth and do Allah honor by harboring neither anger nor jealousy. Yet my hand is always forced, someone always tries to probe for my weakness. I must respond harshly or lose all I have worked to attain. I wish only peace, and my reward is resentment. I will be avenged on this most abominable of butchers, my nephew! This mad executioner who defiles the holy work of Allah will die! By the sacred beard of the Prophet, I will have my vengeance!”

I waited a moment until he had calmed himself a little. “O Shaykh,” I said, “there have been two people murdered by leaden bullets, and two who have been tortured and bled in this same way. I believe there may be more deaths to come. I have been seeking a friend who has disappeared. She was living with Tamiko, and she sent me a frightened message. I fear for her life.”

Papa frowned at me. “I have no time for your troubles,” he muttered. He was still preoccupied with the outrage of Abdoulaye’s death. In some ways, from the old man’s point of view, it was even more frightening than what the same killer had done to Tamiko. “I was prepared to believe that you were responsible, my nephew; if you had not proven your innocence, you would have died a lingering and terrible death in this room. I thank Allah that such an injustice did not occur. You seemed to be the most likely person upon whom to direct my wrath, but now I must find another. It is only a matter of time until I discover his identity.” His lips pressed together into a cruel, bloodless smile. “You say you were playing cards at the Café Solace. Then the others with you will have the same alibi. Who were these men?”

I named my friends, glad to provide an explanation of their whereabouts; they would not have to face such an inquisition as this.

“Would you like some more coffee?” asked Friedlander Bey wearily.

“May Allah guide us, I have had enough,” I said.

“May your times be prosperous,” said Papa. He gave a heavy sigh. “Go in peace.”

“By your leave,” I said, rising.

“May you arise in the morning in health.”

I thought of Abdoulaye. “Inshallah.” I said. I turned, and the Stone That Speaks had already opened the door. I felt a great relief flood through me as I left the room. Outside, beneath a clear black sky pricked with bright stars, was Sergeant Hajjar, leaning against his patrol car. I was surprised; I thought he’d gone back to the city long ago.

“I see you made it out all right,” he said to me. “Go around the other side.”

“Sit in front?” I asked.

“Yeah.” We got into the car; I’d never sat in the front of a police car before. If my friends could only see me now . . . “You want a smoke?” Hajjar asked, taking out a pack of French cigarettes.

“No, I don’t do that,” I said.

He started the car and whipped it around in a tight circle, then headed back to the center of town, lights flashing and siren screaming. “You want to buy some sunnies?” he asked. “I know you do that.”

I would have loved to get some more sunnies, but buying them from a cop seemed odd. The drug traffic was tolerated in the Budayeen, the way the rest of our harmless foibles were tolerated. Some cops don’t enforce every law; there were undoubtedly plenty of officers one could safely buy drugs from. I just didn’t trust Hajjar, not as far as I could kick him uphill in the dark.

“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?” I asked.

He turned to me and grinned. “I didn’t expect you to get out of that motel room alive,” he said. “When you walked through that door, you had Papa Bey’s Okay mark stamped on your forehead. What’s okay with Papa is okay with me. Get it?”

I got it. I had thought that Hajjar worked for Lieutenant Okking and the police force, but Hajjar worked for Friedlander Bey, all the way.

“Can you take me to Frenchy’s?” I said.

“Frenchy’s? Your girlfriend works there, right?”

“You keep up on things.”

He turned and grinned at me again. “Six kiam apiece, the sunnies.”

“Six?” I said. “That’s ridiculous. I can get them for two and a half.”

“Are you crazy? There’s nowhere in the city you can get them less than four, and you can’t get them.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll give you three kiam each.”

Hajjar rolled his eyes upward. “Don’t bother,” he said in a disgusted voice. “Allah will grant me a sufficient living without you.”

“What is your lowest price? I mean your lowest.”

“Offer whatever you think is fair.”

“Three kiam,” I said again.

“Because it’s between you and me,” said Hajjar seriously, “I’ll go as low as five and a half.”

“Three and a half. If you won’t take my money, I can find somebody who will.”

“Allah will sustain me. I hope your dealing goes well.”

“What the hell, Hajjar? Okay, four.”

“What, you think fm making you a present of these?”

“They’re no present at these prices. Four and a half. Does that satisfy you?”

“All right, I’ll take my consolation from God. No gain to me, but give me the money and that ends it.” And that is the way Arabs in the city bargain, in a souk over a beaten-brass vase, or in the front seat of a cop car.

I gave him a hundred kiam, and he gave me twenty-three sunnies. He reminded me three times on the way to Frenchy’s that he had thrown in one free, as a gift. When we got to the Budayeen, he didn’t slow down. He squealed through the gate and shot up the Street, predicting amiably that everyone would get out of his way; almost everyone did. When we got to Frenchy’s, I started to get out of the car. “Hey,” he said in a hurt tone of voice, “aren’t you going to buy me a drink?”

Standing in the street, I slammed the door closed and leaned down to look in through the window. “I just can’t do that, as much as I would like to. If my friends saw me drinking with a cop, well, think what that would do to my reputation. Business is business, Hajjar.”

He grinned. “And action is action. I know, I hear that all the time. See you around.” And he whipped the patrol car around again and bellowed off down the Street.

I was already sitting down at Frenchy’s bar when I remembered all the blood on my clothes and my body. It was too late; Yasmin had already spotted me. I groaned. I needed something to set me up for the scene that was fast approaching. Fortunately, I had all these sunnies . . . 



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