A Fire in the Sun (19 page)

"Just skip it then, Lieutenant," I said. "Come on, Jirji, let's leave him alone."

"Shut up, Audran," said Hajjar. "We got an official complaint from Reda Abu Adil. I thought I told you to lay off him." We hadn't gone out to see Abu Adil again, but we'd been talking to as many of his crummy underlings as we could corner.

"Okay," said Shaknahyi, "we'll lay off."

"The investigation is finished. We compiled all the information we need."

"Okay," said Shaknahyi.

"You both understand? Leave Abu Adil alone from now on. We ain't got a thing on him. He's not under any kind of suspicion."

"Right," said Shaknahyi.

Hajjar looked at me. "Fine," I said.

Hajjar nodded. "Okay. Now I got somethin' else I want you two to check out." He handed Shaknahyi a sheet of pale blue paper.

Shaknahyi glanced at it. "This address is right nearby," he said.

"Uh huh," said Hajjar. "There been some complaints from people in the neighborhood. Looks like another baby peddler, but this guy's got an ugly wrinkle. If this On Cheung's there, cuff him and bring him in. Don't worry about evidence; we'll make some up later if you don't find nothin'. If he ain't there, go through what you find and bring the good stuff back here."

"What do we charge him with?" I asked.

Hajjar shrugged. "Don't need to charge him with nothing. He'll hear all about it soon enough at his trial."

I looked at Shaknahyi; he shrugged. This was how the police department used to operate in the city a few years ago. Lieutenant Hajjar must have gotten nostalgic for the good old days before due process.

Shaknahyi and I left Hajjar's office and headed toward the elevator. He jammed the blue paper in his shirt pocket. "This won't take long," he said. "Then we can get something to eat." The idea of food-nauseated me; I realized that I was still half-loaded. I prayed to Allah that my condition wouldn't get us into trouble on the street.

We drove about six blocks to an area of crumbling red brick tenements. Children played in the street, kicking a soccer ball back and forth and leaping on each other with loud shrieks. "Yaa Sidi! Yaa Sidi!" they cried when I got out of the copcar. I realized that some of them were the kids I distributed cash to every morning.

"You're becoming a celebrity in this neighborhood," Shaknahyi said with some amusement.

Groups of men were sitting in front of the tenements on battered kitchen chairs, drinking tea and arguing and watching traffic go by. Their conversation died as soon as     . we appeared. They watched us walk by with narrowed,    f hate-filled eyes. I could hear them muttering about us as we passed.

Shaknahyi consulted the blue sheet and checked the address of one of the tenements. "This is it," he said. There was a dark storefront on the ground floor, its display window obscured by flattened cardboard boxes taped in place on the inside.

"Looks abandoned," I said.

Shaknahyi nodded and walked back to where some of the men were watching us closely. "Anybody know anything about this On Cheung?" he asked.

The men looked at each other, but none of them said anything.

"Bastard's been buying kids. You seen him?"

I didn't think any of the unshaven, hungry-looking men would help us, but finally one of them stood up. "I'D talk to you," he said. The others mocked him and spat at his heels as he followed Shaknahyi and me down the sidewalk.

"What you know about it?" Shaknahyi asked.

"This On Cheung shows up a few months ago," said the man. He looked over his shoulder nervously. "Every day, women come here to his shop. They bring children, they go inside. A little while later they come out again, but they don't come out with the children."

"What does he do with the kids?" I asked.

"He breaks their legs," said the man. "He cuts off their hands or pulls out their tongues so people will feel sorry for them and give them money. Then he sells them to slavemasters who put them on the street to beg. Sometimes he sells the older girls to pimps."

"On Cheung would be dead by sundown if Fried-lander Bey knew about this," I said.

Shaknahyi looked at me like I was a fool. He turned back to our informant. "How much does he pay for a kid?"

"I don't know," said the man. "Three, maybe five hundred kiam. Boys are worth more than girls. Sometimes pregnant women come to him from other parts of the city. They stay a week, a month. Then they go home and tell their family that the baby died." He shrugged.

Shaknahyi went to the storefront and tried the door. It rattled but wouldn't open. He took out his needle gun and smashed a glass panel over the lock, then reached in and opened the door. I followed him into the dark, musty storefront.

There was trash strewn everywhere, broken bottles and Styrofoam food containers, shredded newspaper and bubblewrap packing material. A strong odor of pinescented disinfectant hung in the still air. There was a single battered table against one wall, a light fixture hanging from the ceiling, a stained porcelain sink in a back corner with one dripping faucet. There was no other furniture. Evidently on Cheung had had some warning of the police interest in his industry. We walked around the room, crunching glass and plastic underfoot. There was nothing more we could do there.

"When you're a cop," said Shaknahyi, "you spend a lot of time being frustrated."

We went outside again. The men on the kitchen chairs were shouting at our informant; none of them had any use for On Cheung, but their friend had broken some goddamn unwritten code by talking to us. He'd have to suffer for it.

We left them going at it. I was disgusted by the whole thing, and glad I hadn't seen evidence of what On Cheung had been up to. "What happens now?" I asked.

"To On Cheung? We file a report. Maybe he's moved to another part of the city, maybe he's left the city altogether. Maybe someday somebody'11 catch him and cut his arms and legs off. Then he can sit on a street corner and beg, see how he likes it."

A woman in a long black coat and gray kerchief crossed the street. She was carrying a small baby wrapped in a red-and-white-checked keffiya. "Yaa Sidi?" she said to me. Shaknahyi raised his eyebrows and walked away.

"Can I help you, O my sister?" I said. It was highly unusual for a woman to speak to a strange man on the street. Of course, I was just a cop to her.

"The children tell me you are a kind man," she said. "The landlord demands more money because now I have another child. He says—"

I sighed. "How much do you need?"

"Two hundred fifty kiam, yaa Sidi."

I gave her five hundred. I took it out of last night's profits from Chiri's. There was still plenty left.

"What they say about you is true, O chosen one!" she said. There were tears slipping from her eyes.

"You embarrass me," I said. "Give the landlord his rent, and buy food for yourself and your children."

"May Allah increase your strength, yaa Sidi!"

"May He bless you, my sister."

She hurried back across the street and into her building. "Makes you feel all warm inside, don't it?" Shaknahyi said. I couldn't tell if he was mocking me.

"I'm glad I can help out a little," I said.

"The Robin Hood of the slums."

"There are worse things to be called."

"If Indihar could see this side of you, maybe she wouldn't hate your guts so much." I stared at him, but he only laughed.

Back in the patrol car, the comp deck spoke up. "Badge number 374, respond immediately. Escaped murderer Paul Jawarski has been positively identified in Meloul's on Nur ad-Din Street. He is desperate, well armed, and he will shoot to kill. Other units are on their way."

"We'll take care of it," said Shaknahyi. The comp deck's crackle faded away.

"Meloul's is where we ate lunch that time, right?" I said.

Shaknahyi nodded. "We'll try to ease this bastard Jawarski out of there before he puts holes in Meloul's couscous steamer."

"Holes?" I asked.

Shaknahyi turned and gave me a broad grin. "He likes old-fashioned pistols. He carries a .45 automatic. Put a dimple in you big enough to throw a leg of lamb through."

"You heard of this Jawarski?"

Shaknahyi swung into Nur ad-Din Street. "We street cops have been seeing his picture for weeks. Claims he's killed twenty-six men. He's the boss of the Flathead Gang. There's ten thousand kiam on his head."

Evidently I was supposed to know what he was talking about. "You don't seem too concerned," I said.

Shaknahyi raised a hand. "I don't know whether the tip's genuine or just another pipe dream. We get as many fake calls as good ones in this neighborhood."

We were the first to arrive at Meloul's. Shaknahyi opened his door and got out. I did the same. "What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Just keep the citizens out of the way," he said. "In case there's some—"

There was a volley of shots from inside the restaurant.

Those projectile weapons make a respectable noise. They sure catch your attention when they go off, not like the spitting and hissing of static and seizure guns. I dropped to the sidewalk and tried to wrestle my static gun free of my pocket. There were more shots and I heard glass shattering nearby. The windshield, I guessed.

Shaknahyi had fallen back alongside the building, out of the line of fire. He was drawing his own weapon.

"Jirji," I called.

He waved to me to cut off the back of the restaurant. I got up and moved a few yards, and then I heard Jawarski run out the front door. I turned and saw Shaknahyi chasing after him, firing his needle gun down Nur ad-Din Street. Shaknahyi shot four times, and then Jawarski turned. I was looking straight at them, and all I could think about was how big and black the mouth of Jawarski's gun looked. It seemed like it was pointed straight at my heart. He fired a few times and my blood froze until I realized I hadn't been hit.

Jawarski ran into a yard a few doors from Meloul's, and Shaknahyi went in after him. The fugitive must have realized that he couldn't cut through to the next street, because he doubled back toward Shaknahyi. I got there just as the two men stood facing each other, shooting it out. Jawarski's gun emptied and he turned and ran to the back of a two-story house.

We chased him through the yard. Shaknahyi ran up a flight of steps in the back, pushed open a door, and went inside the house. I didn't want to, but I had to follow him. As soon as I opened the back door, I saw Shaknahyi. He was leaning against a wall, shoving a fresh clip into his needle gun. He didn't seem to be aware of the large, dark stain that was spreading across his chest.

"Jirji, you're shot," I said, my mouth dry and my heart hammering.

"Yeah." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Come on."

He walked slowly through the house to the front door. He went outside and stopped a civilian in a small electric car. "Too far to get the patrol car," he said to me, panting for breath. He looked at the driver. "I'm shot," he said, getting into the car.

I got in beside him. "Take us to the hospital," I ordered the mousy little man behind the wheel.

Shaknahyi swore. "Forget that. Follow him." He pointed to Jawarski, who was crossing the open space between the house he'd hidden in and the next.

Jawarski saw us and fired as he ran. The bullet went through the window of the car, but the bald-headed driver kept on going. We could see Jawarski dodging from one house to another. Between houses, he'd turn and take a few shots at us. Five more bullets spanged into the car.

Finally Jawarski got to the last house on the block, and he ran up the porch. Shaknahyi steadied his needle gun and fired. Jawarski staggered inside. "Come on," said Shaknahyi, wheezing. "I think I got him." He opened the car door and fell to the pavement. I jumped out and helped him to his feet. "Where are they?" he murmured.

I looked over my shoulder. A handful of uniformed cops were swarming up the stairs of Jawarski's hiding place, and three more patrol cars were racing up the street. "They're right here, Jirji," I said. His skin was starting to turn an awful gray color.

He leaned against the shot-up car and caught his breath. "Hurts like hell," he said quietly.

"Take it easy, Jirji. We'll get you to the hospital."

"Wasn't no accident, the call about On Cheung, then the tip on Jawarski."

"What you talking about?" I asked.

He was in a lot of pain, but he wouldn't get in the car. "The Phoenix File," he said. He looked deeply into my eyes, as if he could burn this information directly into my brain. "Hajjar let it slip about the Phoenix File. I been keeping notes ever since. They don't like it. Pay attention to who gets my parts, Audran. But play dumb or they'll take your bones too."

"The hell is a Phoenix File, Jirji?" I was frantic with worry.

"Take this." He gave me the vinyl-covered notebook from his hip pocket. Then his eyes closed and he slumped backward across the hood of the car. I looked at the driver. "Now you want to take him to the hospital?"

The shrimpy bald-headed man stared at me. Then he looked at Jirji. "You think you can keep that blood off my upholstery?" he asked.

I grabbed the little motherfucker by the front of his shirt and threw him out of his own car. Then I gently eased Shaknahyi into the passenger seat and drove to the hospital as fast as I've ever driven.

It didn't make any difference. I was too late.

Chapter 10

One of Khayyam's rubaiyyat kept going through my mind. Something about regret: 

Again, again, Repentance oft before I vowed—but was I sober when I swore? Again, again I failed, for younger thoughts my frail Repentance into tatters tore.

"Chiri, please," I said, holding up my empty glass. The club was almost empty. It was late and I was very tired. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, the same shrill, thumping hispo music Kandy played every time she got up to dance. I was getting tired of hearing the same songs over and over again.

"Why don't you go home?" Chiri asked me. "I can take care of the place by myself. What's the matter, don't you trust me with the cash?"