The Exile Kiss (16 page)

"I'll bet," I said. "So now Kmuzu knows I'm bade, too."
"Hey, it's just Kmuzu," said Chiri. "You can trust him."
Yes, I did trust Kmuzu. More than just about anyone else. I changed the subject. "Wife, how are my step-chil-dren?"
"They're all fine," she said, smiling for the first time". "They all want to know where you've gone. I think little Zahra has a crush on you."
I laughed, although I was a little uneasy about that bit of news.
"Well," said Chiri, "we should be going. The Maghrebi here has to get to work on his plans of ven-geance. Right, Martd?"
"Well, sort of. Thanks so much for coming by. And thanks for bringing the moddies and the pillcase. That was
-very thoughtful."
"Not at all, husband," said Indihar. "I will pray to Allah, thanking Him for returning you." She came to me and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
I walked them to the door. "And the club?" Tasked.
Chiri shrugged. "Same old story. Business is dead, the girls are still trying to rob us blind, you know the rest."
Indihar laughed. "The rest is that the club's probably making meney like crazy, and your share will need a trac-tor-trailer to haul it to the bank."
In other words, all was right with the world. Except in the area of personal freedom for myself and Friedlander Bey. I had some ideas on how to improve things along those lines, however. I just needed to make a few impor-tant phone calls.
"Salaamtak," said Indihar, bowing before me.
"Allah yisallimak," I replied. Then the two women left, and I closed the door.
Almost immediately, I went to the kitchen and swal-lowed a few sunnies with a glass of water. I promised myself that I wouldn't get back into my old habits, but that I could afford to reward my recent heroic behavior. Then I'd put the pillcase away and save it for emergencies.
Out of curiosity, I browsed through my rack of mod-dies and daddies, and discovered that Chiriga had left me a little gift—a new sex-moddy. I examined it. The label said it was Inferno in the Night, one of Honey Pilar's early moddies, but it was recorded from her partner's point of view.
I went into the bedroom, undressed, and lay down on the bed. Then I reached up, murmured "Bismillah," and chipped the moddy in.
The first thing Audran noticed was that he was much younger, much stronger, and filled with an anticipation that bordered on desperation. He felt wonderful, and he laughed as he took off his clothes.
The woman in the bedroom with him was Honey Piiar. Audran had loved her with a consuming passion ever since he met her, two hours ago. He thought it was a great privilege to be allowed to gaze at her and compose clumsy poems in her honor. That he and she might jam was more than he could've hoped for.
She stripped slowly and enticingly, then joined Audran on the bed. Her hair was pale blond, her eyes a remarkable green like clean, cool waves in the ocean. "Yes?" she said. "You are much hurt?" Her voice was languid and musical.
Inferno in the Night was one of Honey's earliest sex-moddies, and it had a vestigial story line. Audran realized that he was a wounded hero of the Catalonian struggle for independence, and Honey was playing the courageous daughter of the evil Valencian duke.
"I'm fine," said Audran.
"You need bad massage," she murmured, moving her fingertips gently across his chest and stopping just at the top of his pubic hair. She waited, looking at him for per-mission.
"Oh, please go ahead," Audran said.
"For the revolution," she said.
"Sure."
And then she caressed his prick until he could stand it no more. He ran his fingers through her fragrant hair, - then grabbed her and turned her on her back.
"Your wounds!" she cried.
"You've miraculously healed me."
"Oh good!" she said, sighing as Audran entered her. They jammed slowly at first, then faster and faster until Audran burst with exquisite pleasure.
After a while, Honey Filar sat up. "I must go," she said sadly. "There are others wounded."
"I understand," Audran said. He reached up and popped the moddy out.
"Jeez," I muttered. It had been a long time since I'd last spent any time with Honey Pilar. I was beginning to think I was getting too old for this stuff. I mean, I wasn't a kid anymore. As I lay panting on the bed, I realized I'd come dangerously close to pulling a hamstring. Maybe they had sex-moddies recorded by couples who'd been married twenty years. That was more my speed.
There was a knock on my room's door. "My nephew," called Friedlander Bey, "are you all right?"
"Yes, O Shaykh," I answered.
"I ask only because I heard you exclaim."
Yipe. "A nightmare, that's all. Let me take a quick shower, and then I'll join you." "Very good, O Excellent One." I got off the bed, ran a quick shower, dressed, and went out into the parlor. "I'd like to get some clean clothes," I said. "I've been wearing this same outfit since we were kidnapped, and I think it's finally dead."
Papa nodded. "I've taken care of that already. I've sent a message to Tariq and Youssef, and they will be here momentarily with fresh clothing and a supply of money." I sat in the wing chair, and Papa sat on the couch. "I suppose your businesses have been purring along just fine with them at the wheel."
"I trust Tariq and Youssef with my life and more: I trust them with my holdings."
"It will be good to see them again." "You had visitors earlier. Who were they?" I gulped. I suddenly realized that he might interpret the visit from Indihar and Chin as a serious breach in security. Worse that that, he might see it as a punishable stupidity. "My wife and my partner, Chiriga," I said. My mouth went suddenly dry.
But Papa only nodded. "They are both well, I pray?" he said.
"Yes, praise Allah, they are."
"I am glad to hear it. Now—" He was interrupted by a knock on the front door of the apartment. "My nephew," he said quietly, "see who's there. If it's not Tariq and Youssef, do not let them in, even if it's one of your friends."
"I understand, O Shaykh." I went to the door and peered through the small peephole. It was indeed Tariq and Youssef, Papa's valet and butler, and the managers of his estate.
I opened the door and they were enthusiastic in their greetings. "Welcome home!" cried Youssef. "Allah be thanked for your safe return! Not that we believed for an instant that story that you both had died in some distant desert."
Tariq carried a couple of hard-sided suitcases into the parlor and set them down. "As-salaam alaykum, yaa Shaykh," he said to me. He turned to Papa and said the same.
"Alaykum as-salaam," said Friedlander Bey. "Tell me what I must know."
They had indeed been keeping business matters up to date. Most of what they discussed with Papa I knew noth-ing about, but there were two situations in which I'd be-come involved. The first was the Cappadocian attempt to win independence from Anatolia. I'd met with the Cappa-docian representatives—how long ago? It seemed like many months, but it couldn't have been more than a few weeks.
Youssef spoke up. "We've decided that the Cap-padocians have a good chance of overthrowing the Anato-lian government in their province. With our aid, it would be a certainty. And it would not cost us very much, rela-tively speaking, to keep them in power long enough."
Long enough? Long enough for what? I wondered. There was still so much I had to learn.
When all the geopolitical issues had been discussed and commented on, I asked, "What about the datalink project?"
"That seems to be stalled, Shaykh Marid," said Tariq.
"Unstall it," said Papa.
"We need someone who is not in our household to accept an executive position," said Tariq. "Of course, the executive position will have no real power or influence— that will remain in the household—but we need a, uh, a—"
"Fall guy," I said.
Tariq just blinked. 'Tes," he said, "precisely."
"You're working on that, aren't you, my nephew?" asked Papa.
I nodded. "I'm developing someone for that position, yes."
"Very well," said Friedlander Bey, standing. "Every-thing seems to be in order. I expected no less. Still, you will be rewarded."
Youssef and Tariq bowed and murmured their thanks. Papa placed his left hand on Tariq's head, and his right on Youssef s. He looked like a saint blessing his followers.
"O Shaykh," I said, "isn't there one more thing?"
"Hmm?" he said, glancing at me.
"Concerning Shaykh Mahali," I said.
"Ah yes, O Excellent One. Thank you for reminding me. Youssef, I want you to make an appointment for my grandson and me to meet with the amir. Tell him that we realize that we're fugitives, but also remind him that we were denied our lawful chance to appeal the verdict of our contrived trials. We think we can persuade him that we're innocent, and beg only for an opportunity to plead our case."
"Yes," said Youssef, "I understand. I will be done as you wish."
"As Allah wishes, rather," said Papa.
"As Allah wishes," Youssef murmured.
"Did the boy arrive safely?" I asked.
"Bin Turki?" said Tariq. "Yes, we've installed him in an empty suite of rooms, and he's rather overawed by everything he's seen. He has struck up a friendship with Umm Jirji, your wife."
Hie My mouth twisted. "Wonderful," I said.
"One more thing," said Friedlander Bey, the ruler of half the city. "I want one round-trip suborbital ticket to the town of Najran, in the kingdom of Asir."
That made my blood run cold, let me tell you.

10

It seemed as if a year had passed since the first time I visited the prince's palace. In fact, it couldn't have been more than a few weeks. I, however, had changed somewhat in that time. I felt that my vision was clearer and that I'd been stripped of my intellectual objections to direct action. Whether that would be a help or a hindrance in my future in the city was yet to be seen.
The amir's estate was even more beautiful in the day-light than it had been on the evening of my wedding re-ception. The air was clean and the breeze was cool and refreshing. The liquid gurgling of the fountains relaxed me as I walked through Shaykh Mahali's gardens. When we got to the house, a servant opened the door. "We have an appointment with the amir," said Fried-lander Bey.
The servant looked at us carefully, decided we weren't madmen or assassins, and nodded. We followed him down a long gallery that bordered an inner courtyard. He opened the door to a small audience chamber, and we entered and took seats and waited for the shaykh to arrive. I felt very uncomfortable, as if I'd been caught cheating on a test and was now waiting for the principal to come in and punish me. The difference was that I hadn't been caught cheating; the charge was murder of a police of-ficer. And the penalty wouldn't be just ten swats, it would be death.
I decided to let Papa handle the defense. He'd had a century and a half more practice at verbal tap dancing than I had.
We sat there in anxious silence for about a quarter f hour. Then, with more bustle than ceremony, Shaykh Mahali and three other men entered. The shaykh was * handsome in white gattebeya and keffiya, and two of his I attendants wore European-style dark gray business suits. The third man wore the robes and dark turban of a scholar of the noble Qur'an; he was evidently Shaykh Mahali's vizier.
The prince took his seat on a handsomely carved chair, and turned toward us. "What is this matter?" he asked quietly.
"O Prince," said Friedlander Bey, stepping forward, "we were wrongfully accused of the death of a police of-ficer, Khalid Maxwell. Then, without benefit of public trial, or even an opportunity to confront our accusers and present a defense, we were kidnapped—right from Your Highness's own grounds, after the wedding reception you gave for my great-grandson. We were forced aboard a suborbital ship, and presented with the news that we'd already been tried. When we landed in Najran, we were taken aboard a helicopter, and then pushed out into the Arabian Desert, in the southern, most dreadful portion known as the Rub al-Khali. We were most fortunate to lie survive, and it took great courage and sacrifice on the part of my beloved great-grandson to keep us alive until we were rescued by a nomadic tribe of Bedu, may the bless-ings of Allah be on them. It is only now that we've been able to make our way back to the city. We beg your atten-tion on this matter, because we believe we have the right to ask for an appeal, and a chance to clear our names."
The amir consulted quietly with his adviser. Then he turned back to us. "I knew nothing of this," he said sim-ply.
"Nor I," said the vizier, "and your file should have crossed my desk before your trial. In any case, such a verdict and sentence cannot be legal without the concur-rence of Shaykh Mahali."
Friedlander Bey stepped forward and gave the vizier the copy of the charges and verdict that he'd gotten from the qadi. "This was all we were allowed to see. It bears the signatures of the qadi and Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq." The vizier studied the paper for a few moments, then passed it on to the prince. The prince glanced at it and said, "There is neither my signature upon this warrant, nor that of my vizier. It is not a valid order. You will have your appeal, one month from today. At that time, I will assemble Lieutenant Hajjar, Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq, and this qadi, who is unknown to me. In the meantime, I will investigate why this matter was passed along without our knowledge."
"We thank you for your generosity, O Prince," said Friedlander Bey humbly.
The amir waved a hand. "No thanks are necessary, my friend. I am only performing my duty. Now, tell me: did either or both of you have anything to do with the death of this police officer?"
Friedlander Bey took a step nearer and looked the prince in the eye. "I swear upon my head, upon the life of the Prophet—may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace—that we had nothing to do with Officer Maxwell's death. Neither of us even knew the man."
Shaykh Mahali rubbed his carefully trimmed beard thoughtfully. "We shall see. Now return to your home, because your month's grace is already beginning to slip away."
We bowed low and backed out of the audience cham-ber. Outside, I released the deep breath I'd been holding. "We can go home now!" I said.
Papa looked very happy. "Yes, my nephew," he said. "And against our resources, and a month's time to pre-pare, Hajjar and the imam cannot hope to prevail."
I didn't know exactly what he had in mind, but I in-tended to dive back into my normal existence as soon as possible. I was hungry for a quiet life, familiar little prob-lems, and no threats greater than a mouse in the ladies' room of my nightclub. However, as a great Franji poet of the dim, dark past once wrote, "The best-laid plans of mice and men often get jammed all to hell."
It would happen in its own time, I knew it instinc-tively. It always did. That's why I avoided making plans of any kind now. I could wait for Allah in His infinite benev-olence to waft His intentions my way.
Sometimes, though, it takes a few days for the Lord of the Worlds to get around to you. In the meantime I just relaxed in Chiri's, comfortable in my usual seat at the curve of the bar. About four or five nights later, long after midnight, I watched Chiriga, my partner and night bar-maid, scoop a meager tip from a customer. She gave him a dismaying look at her filed teeth and drifted down to my end of the bar. "Cheap bastard," she said, stuffing the money into a pocket of her tight jeans.
I didn't say anything for a while. I was in a melancholy mood. Three o'clock in the morning and many drinks always do that to me. "You know," I said at last, staring up at Yasmin on stage, "when I was a kid, and I imagined what it would be like to be grown up, this wasn't it. This wasn't it at all."
Chiri's beautiful black face relaxed in one of her rare smiles. "Me, too. I never thought I'd end up in this city. And when I did, I didn't plan to get stuck in the Budayeen. I was aiming at a higher-class neighborhood." "Yet here we are."
Chiriga's smile faded. "Here I am, Martd, probably i forever. You got great expectations." She took my empty I glass, threw a few fresh ice cubes into it, and mixed me another White Death. That's what Chiri had named my favorite drink, gin and bingara with a slug of Rose's lime juice. I didn't need another drink, but I wanted one.
She set it in front of me on an old, ragged cork coaster, then headed back up the bar toward the front of the club. A customer had come in and sat down near the door. Chiri shrugged at him and pointed toward me. The customer got up and moved slowly down the narrow aisle between the bar and the booths. When he got a little closer, I saw it was Jacques.
Jacques is very proud of being a Christian in a Muslim city, and conceited about being three-quarters European where most people are Arab. That makes Jacques dumb, and it also makes him a target. He's one of my three old buddies: Saied the Half-Hajj is my friend; I can't stand Mahmoud; and Jacques is in the middle. I don't give a phony ftq about what he does or says, and neither does anyone else I know.
"Where you at, Marid?" he said, sitting beside me. "You had us all worried for a few weeks."
"All right, Jacques," I said. "Want something to drink?" Yasmin had danced her third song, and was grabbing up her clothes and hurrying off the stage, to wring tips from the few morose customers we still had.
Jacques frowned. "I don't have much money with me tonight. That's what I want to talk to you about."
"Uh huh," I said. In the months that I'd owned the club, I'd heard it all. I signaled to Chiri to draw a beer for my old pal, Jacques.
We watched her fill a tall glass and bring it down the bar. She put it in front of Jacques but said nothing to him. Chiri can't stand him. Jacques is the land of guy, if his house was burning in the night, most people in the Budayeen would write him a postcard and drop it in the mail to warn him.
Yasmin came up to us, dressed now in a short leather skirt and a black, lacy brassiere. "Tip me for my dancing, Jacques?" she said with a sweet smile. I think she's the sexiest dancer on the Street, but because Jacques is strictly heterosexual and Yasmin wasn't quite born a girl, I didn't think she'd have any luck with him.
"I don't have much money—" he began.
'Tip her," I said in a cold voice.
Jacques gave me a quick glance, but dug in his pocket and pulled out a one-kiam bill.
"Thanks," said Yasmin. She moved on to the next lonely customer.
"You gonna keep ignoring me, Yasmin?" I said.
"How's your wife, Marid?" she called, without turning around.
"Yeah," said Jacques, smirking, "honeymoon over al-ready? You hanging out here all night?"
"I own this place, you know."
Jacques shrugged. 'Teah, but Chiri could run it just fine without you. She used to, if I remember right."
I squeezed the little wedge of lime into my drink and gulped it down. "So you just felt like dropping in this late for a free beer, or what?"
Jacques gave me a weak grin. "I do have something I want to ask you," he said.
"I figured." I waved my empty glass back and forth at Chiri. She just raised her eyebrows; she thought I'd been drinking too much lately, and that was her way of letting me know.
I wasn't in the mood for her disapproval. Chiri was usually a noninterventionist, meaning that she believed every person was intitled to his own flaming stupidity. I signaled again, more sharply this time, and she finally nodded and put together another White Death in a fresh glass. She marched down to my end of the bar, dropped it heavily in front of me, and marched away again without saying a word. I couldn't see what she was so upset about.
Jacques sipped slowly at his beer, then put his glass down in the very center of the coaster. "Marid," he said, his eyes on a pretty sexchange named Lily who was tiredly doing her bit on stage, "would you go out of your way to help Fuad?"
What can I say about Fuad? His nickname on the Street was il-Manhous, which means "The Permanently Fucked," or words to that effect. Fuad was a tall, skinny guy with a big mop of hair that he wore in a greasy pom-padour. He'd suffered some kind of degenerative disease as a kid, because his arms were as thin and frail-looking as dry sticks, with huge, swollen joints. He meant well, I suppose, but he had this pitiful puppy-dog quality. He was so desperate to be liked and so anxious to please that he sometimes got obnoxious about it. Some of the dancers in the clubs exploited him, sending him off to fetch food and run other errands, for which they neither paid nor thanked him. If I thought about him at all—which I didn't do very often—I tended to feel a little sorry for the guy.
"Fuad's not very bright," I said, "He still hasn't learned that those hookers he falls in love with always rob him blind at the first opportunity."
Jacques nodded. "I'm not talking about his Intelli-gence, though. I mean, would you help him out if money was involved?"
"Well, I think he's kind of a sad person, but I can't remember him ever doing anything to hurt someone else. I don't think he's smart enough. Yeah, I guess I'd help him. It depends."
Jacques took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, listen," he said, "he wants me to do him a big favor. Tell me what you think."
"It's about that time, Marid," called Chiri from the other end of the bar.
I glanced at my watch and saw that it was almost half past three. There were only two other customers in the club now, and they'd been sitting there for almost an hour. No one but Jacques had come in during that time. We weren't going to do any more business tonight. "Okay," I announced to the dancers, "you ladies can get dressed now."
"Yay!" shouted Pualani. She and the four others hur-ried to the dressing room to put on their street clothes. Chiri began counting out the register. The two customers, who had been having deep, meaningful conversations with Kandy and Windy just a moment before, stared at each other in bewilderment.
I got up and tapped on the overhead lights, then sat down again beside Jacques. I've always thought that there is no lonelier place in the city than a bar in the Budayeen at closing time. "What's this that Fuad wants you to do?" I said wearily.
"It's a long story," said Jacques.
'Terrific. Why didn't you come in eight boon
when I felt more like hearing long stories?"
"Just listen. Fuad comes up to me this afternoon with this long, mournful look on his face. You know the look I mean. You'd think the world was coming to an end and he'd just found out he hadn't been invited. Anyway, I was having a little lunch at the Solace with Mahmoud and the Half-Hajj. Fuad comes up and drags a chair over and sits down. Starts eating off my plate, too."
"Yeah, sounds like our boy, all right," I said. I prayed to Allah that Jacques would get to the point in less time than it had taken Fuad.
"I slapped his hand and told him to go away, because we were having an important discussion. We weren't, re-ally, but I wasn't in the mood to put up with him. So he says he needed somebody to help him get his money back. Saied says, 'Fuad, you let another one of those working girls steal your money again?' And Fuad says no, it wasn't anything like that.
"Then he takes out this official-looking paper and hands it to Saied, who glanced at it and handed it to me, and I looked at it and passed it on to Mahmoud. "What's this?' Mahmoud says.
" 'It's a cashier's check for twenty-four hundred kiam,' says Fuad.
" 'How'd you get it?" I ask.
" 'It's a long story,' he says."
I closed my eyes and held the ice-cold glass against my throbbing forehead. I could've chipped in my pain-block-ing daddy, but it was sitting in a rack in my briefcase on my desk in my suite in Friedlander Bey's mansion.
"Jacques," I said in a low, dangerous voice, "you said this is a long story, and now Fuad's said this is a long story, and I don't want to listen to a long story. Okay? Can you just kind of go over the high points from here on?"
"Sure, Martd, take it easy. What he said was that he'd been saving up his money for months, that he wanted to buy a used electric van from some guy in Rasmiyya. He said he could live in the van cheaper than renting an apartment, and he also planned to go on a trip to visit his folks in Tripoli."