The Exile Kiss (15 page)

"Ferrari?" I said. "The Blue Parrot? I never go in there. The place is too classy for me." The Blue Parrot was one of those high-toned, formal attire, champagne-serving, little Latin band clubs. Signer Ferrari glided among the tables, murmuring pleasantries while the ceil-ing fans turned lazily overhead. Not a single undraped bosom to -be seen. The place gave me the creeps. .
"Just that much better. We'll have your driver friend take us around to the back of Ferrari's place. The door will be unlocked. We're to make ourselves comfortable in the rooms upstairs, and our host will join us when he closes his nightclub at 2 a.m., inshallah. As for young bin Turki, I think it would be better and safer if we sent him ahead to our house. Write out a brief note on one of your holocards and sign it without using your name. That will be enough for Youssef and Tariq."
I understood what he wanted. I scribbled a quick mes-sage on the back of one of the Damascene holocards— "Youssef and Tariq: This is our friend bin Turki. Treat him well until we return. See you soon, [signed] The Maghrebi." I gave the card to bin Turki.
"Thank you, O Shaykh," he said. He was still quiver-ing with excitement. "You've already done more than I can ever repay."
I shrugged. "Don't worry about repaying anything, my friend," I said. "We'll find a way to put you to work." Then I turned to Friedlander Bey. "I'll trust your judg-ment concerning Ferrari, O Shaykh, because I personally don't know how honest he is."
That brought another smile to Papa's lips. "Honest? I don't trust honest men. There's always the first time for betrayal, as you have learned. Rather, Signer Ferrari is fearful, and that is something I can depend on. As for his honesty, he's no more honest than anyone else in the Budayeen."
That wasn't very honest. Papa had a point, though. I thought about how I'd pass the time in Ferrari's rooms, and my own agenda began to take shape. Before I could discuss it with Friedlander Bey, however, Bill arrived.
Bill glared out of his cab with insane eyes that almost seemed to sizzle. "Yeah?" he said.
Papa murmured, "In the name of Allah, the Benefi-cent, the Merciful."
"In the name of Christy Mathewson, the dead, the buried," growled Bill in return.
I looked at Papa. "Who is Christy Mathewson?" I asked.
Friedlander Bey just gave me a slight shrug. I was curious, but I knew it was wrong to start a conversational thread with Bill. He would either blow up in a rage and leave, or he'd start talking unstoppably and we'd never get to the Blue Parrot before dawn.
"Yeah?" said Bill in a threatening voice.
"Let's get in the cab," said Friedlander Bey calmly. We climbed in. "The Blue Parrot in the Budayeen, Go to the rear entrance."
"Yeah?" said Bill. "The Street's not open to vehicular traffic, which is what we are, or soon will be, as soon as I start moving. Actually, we'll all start moving, because we're—"
"Don't worry about the city ordinance," said Papa. "I'm giving you permission."
"Yeah? Even though we're transporting fire demons?"
"Don't worry about that, either," I said. "We have a Special Pass." I just made that part up.
"Yeah?" snarled Bill.
"Bismillah," prayed Papa.
Bill tromped the accelerator and we shot out of the airport lot, zooming and rocketing and careening around corners. Bill always sped up when he came to a turn, as if he couldn't wait to see what was around the corner. Someday it's going to be a big delivery wagon. Blammo.
'Yoa Allah!" cried bin Turki, terrified. "Yaa Allah!" His cries died away to a constant fearful moan through the duration of the journey.
Actually, our ride was fairly uneventful—at least for me. I was used to Bill's driving. Papa pushed himself deep into the seat, closed his eyes, and repeated "bismallah, bismillah" the whole time. And Bill kept up a nonsensical monologue about how baseball players complained about scuffed balls, you should have to hit against an afrit once, see how hard that is, trying to connect with a ball of fire, even if you do, it won't go out of the infield, just break up in a shower of red and yellow sparks, try that sometime, maybe people would understand . . . and so forth.
We turned off the beautiful Boulevard il-Jameel and passed through the Budayeen's eastern gate. Even Bill realized that the pedestrian traffic on the Street was too dense for his customary recklessness, and so we made our way slowly to the Blue Parrot, then drove around the block to the rear entrance. When Papa and I got out of the cab, Friedlander Bey paid the fare and gave Bill a moderate tip.
Bill waved one sunburned arm. "It was nice meeting you," he said.
"Right, Bill," I said. "Who is Christy Mathewson?"
"One of the best players in the history of the game. The Big Six,' they called him. Maybe two hundred, two hundred fifty years ago."
"Two hundred fifty years!" I said, astonished.
"Yeah?" said Bill angrily. "What's it to ya?"
I shook my head. "You know where Friedlander Bey's house is?"
"Sure," said Bill. "What's the matter? You guys forget where you put it? It just didn't get up and walk away."
"Here's an extra ten kiam. Drive my young friend to Friedlander Bey's house, and make sure he gets there safely."
"Sure thing," said the cab driver.
I peered into the back seat, where bin Turki looked horrified that he'd have to ride with Bill, all alone and lost in the big city. "We'll see you in a day or two," I told him. "In the meantime, Youssef and Tariq will take care of you. Have a good time!"
Bin Turki just stared at me with wide eyes, gulping but not actually forming any coherent words. I turned on my heel and followed Papa to the unlocked door at the rear of the Blue Parrot. I was sure that Bill would forget the entire conversation soon after he delivered bin Turki to the mansion.
We went up a stairway made of fine polished hard-wood. It twisted around in a complete circle, and we found ourselves on a landing, faced by two doors. The door to the left was locked, probably Ferrari's private apartment. The door to the right opened into a spacious parlor, decorated in a European style with lots of dark wood paneling and potted palms and a piano in one cor-ner. The furniture was very tasteful and modern, how-ever. Leading off from the parlor were a kitchen and two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom.
"I imagine we can be comfortable here," I said.
Papa grunted and headed for a bedroom. He was al-most two hundred years old, and it had been a long and tiring day for him. He shut the bedroom door behind him, and I stayed in the parlor, softly knuckling bits of music at the piano.
In about ten or fifteen minutes, Signer Ferrari came upstairs. "I heard movement up here," he explained in an apologetic manner, "and I wanted to be sure it was you. Did Signer Bey find everything to his liking?"
"Yes, indeed, and we both want to thank you for your hospitality."
"It's nothing, nothing at all." Ferrari was a grossly fat man stuffed inside a plain white linen suit. He wore a red felt fez with a tassel on his head, and he rubbed his hands together anxiously, belying the suave, almost oily tone of his voice.
"Still," I said, "I'm sure Friedlander Bey will find some way to reward your kindness."
"If that is his wish," said Ferrari, his little pig eyes squinting at me, "then I would be honored to accept." "I'm sure." v
"Now, I must get back to my patrons. If there's any-thing you need, just pick up the phone and call 111. My staff has orders to bring you anything you desire."
"Excellent, Signer Ferrari. If you'll wait a moment, I'd like to write a note. Would one of your staff deliver it for me?"
"Well ..."
"Just to Chiriga's, on the Street." "Certainly," he said.
I wrote out a quick message to Chiri, telling her that I was, in fact, still alive, but that she had to keep the news secret until we cleared our names. I told her to call Fer-rari's number and get extension 777 if she wanted to talk to me about anything, but she shouldn't use the phone in the club because it might be tapped. I folded the note and gave it to Ferrari, who promised that it would be deliv-ered within fifteen minutes.
"Thank you for everything, signor," I said, yawning. "I will leave you now," said Ferrari. "You no doubt need to rest."
I grunted and shut the door behind him. Then I went to the second guest room and stretched out on the bed. I expected the phone to ring soon.
It didn't take long. I answered the phone with a curt "Where y'at?"
It was Chiri, of course. For a few seconds, all I could hear was gibberish. Then I slowly began to separate words from the hysterical flow. "You're really alive? This isn't some kind of trick?"
I laughed. "Yeah, you right, Chiri, I set this all up before I died. You're talking to a recording. Hey, of course I'm alive! Did you really believe—"
"Hajjar brought me the news that you'd been picked up on a murder rap, both you and Papa, and that you'd been flown into exile from which you couldn't possibly return."
"Well, Chiri, here I am."
"Hell, we all went through a terrible time when we thought you were dead. The grieving was all for nothing, is that what you're telling me?"
"People grieved?" I have to admit the notion gave me a perverse sort of pleasure.
"Well, I sure as hell grieved, and a couple of the girls, and . . . and Indihar. She thought she'd been widowed a second time."
I chewed my lip for a few seconds. "Okay, you can tell Indihar, but no one else. Got that? Not Saied the Half-Hajj or any of my other friends. They're all still under suspicion. Where you calling from?"
"The pay phone in the back of Vast Foods." That was a lunch counter kind of place. The food wasn't really vast. That was a sign painter's error that they never bothered to correct.
"Fine, Chiri. Remember what I said."
"How 'bout if I give you a visit tomorrow?"
I thought that over, and finally I decided that there was little risk, and I really wanted to see Chili's cannibal grin again. "All right. You know where we are?"
"Above the Blue Parrot?"
"Uh huh."
"This black girl happy-happy, see you tomorrow, Bwana."
"Yeah, you right," I said, and I hung up the phone.
My mind was crammed with thoughts and half-formed plans. I tried to go to sleep, but I just lay there for an hour or so. Finally, I heard Friedlander Bey stirring in the kitchen. I got up and joined him.
"Isn't there a teapot around here?" Papa grumbled. , I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter after two in the morning. "Why don't we go downstairs?" I said. "Fer-rari will be closing up the place now."
He considered the idea. "I'd like that," he said. "I'd like to sit and relax with a glass or two of tea."
We went downstairs. I carefully checked to make sure all the patrons had left the Blue Parrot, and then Papa took a seat at one of the tables. One of Ferrari's flunkies brought him a pot of tea, and after the first glass, you'd never have known that Papa had just returned from a grim and dangerous exile. He closed his eyes and savored every drop of tea. "Civilized tea," he called it longing for it every time he'd had to swallow the thin, alkaline tea of the Bani Salim.
I stayed by the door, watching the sidewalk outside. I flinched two or three times as police patrol cars rattled by on the stone-paved street.
Finally, the fatigue caught up with us, and we bid Signer Ferrari good night once more. Then we climbed the stairs to our hiding place. I was asleep within a few minutes of undressing and climbing into Ferrari's com-fortable guest bed.
I slept about ten hours. It was the most refreshing, luxurious night's sleep I could remember. It had been a long while since I'd enjoyed clean sheets. Again, I was jolted awake by the phone. I picked up the extension be-side my bed. "Yeah?" I said.
"Signor Audran," said Ferrari's voice, "there are two young women to see you. Shall I send them up?"
"Please," I said, running my hand sleepily through my rumpled hair. I hung up the phone and dressed hurriedly.
I could hear Chili's voice calling from the stairwell, "Marid? Which door? Where are you, Marid?"
I hadn't had time to shower or shave, but I didn't care, and I didn't think Chiri would, either. I answered the door and was surprised to see Indihar, too. "Come on in," I said in a low voice. "We'll have to keep it down, because Papa's still asleep."
"All right," murmured Chiri, coming into the parlor. "Nice place Ferrari has up here."
"Oh, these are just his guest rooms. I can only imagine what his own suite is like."
Indihar was wearing widow's black. She came up to me and touched my face. "I am glad to see that you're well, husband," she said, and then she turned away, weep-ing.
"One thing I gotta know," said Chiri, dropping heavily into an antique wing chair. "Did you or did you not kill that policeman?"
"I did not kill a cop," I said fiercely. "Papa and I were framed for that, and we were tried in absentia, and cast out into the Empty Quarter. Now that we're back—and you can be damn sure that somebody never expected us to get back—we have to solve that crime to clear our names. When we do, heads will roll. Quite literally."
"I believe you, husband," said Indihar, who sat beside me on an expensive couch that matched Chiri's wing chair. "My ... my late husband and I were good friends with the murdered patrolman. His name was Khalid Max-well, and he was a kind, generous man. I don't want his killer to get away unpunished."
"I promise you, my wife, that won't happen. He'll pay dearly."
There was an awkward silence for a moment. I looked uncomfortably at Indihar and she stared down at her hands, folded in her lap. Chiri came to our rescue. She coughed politely and said, "Brought something for you, Mr. Boss." I looked toward her; she was grinning, her tattooed face wrinkled up in delight. She held out a plastic moddy rack.
"My moddies!" I said happily. "It looks like all of them."
"You've got enough weirdo stuff there to keep you occupied while you're laying low," said Chiri.
"And here is something else, husband." Indihar was offering me a tan plastic item on the palm of her hand.
"My pillcase!" I was more happy to see it than the moddy rack. I took it and opened it, and saw that it was crammed full of beauties, sunnies, Paxium, everything a working fugitive needed to keep sane in a hostile world. "Although," I said, clearing my throat self-consciously, "I am trying to cut down."
"That's good, husband," said Indihar. The unspoken text was that she still blamed me and my substance abuse for the death of her first husband. She was makin galarge gesture by giving me the pillcase.
"Where did you get these things?" I asked. J
"From Kmuzu," said Chiri. "I just sweet-talked that - pretty boy until he didn't know which direction was up."