The Exile Kiss (17 page)

"That where Faud's from? I didn't know that."
Jacques shrugged. "Anyway, he said the guy in Ras-miyya quoted him a price of twenty-four hundred kiam for this van. Fuad swears it was in great shape and only needed a little work here and there, and he'd gotten all of his money together and had a bank check drawn up in the other guy's name. That afternoon, he walked all the way from the Budayeen to Rasmiyya, and the guy had sold the van to somebody else, after promising he'd hold it for Fuad."
I shook my head. "Fuad, all right. What a hopeless son of a bitch."
"So Fuad trudges all the way back through the eastern gate, and finds us at the Cafe Solace and tells us his tale of woe. Mahmoud just laughed in his face, and Saied was wearing Rex, his ass-kicker moddy, so Fuad was totally beneath his notice. I kind of felt sorry for him, though."
"Uh huh," I said. I had trouble believing that Jacques felt sorry for Fuad. If that were true, the heavens would have split open or something, and I didn't think they had. "What did Fuad want you to do?"
Jacques squirmed uneasily on his bar stool. "Well, ap-parently Fuad has never had his own bank account. He keeps his money in cash in an old cigar box or something. That's why he had to have a bank check drawn up. So here he was, stuck with a cashier's check made out to somebody else, and no way to get his twenty-four hun-dred kiam back."
"Ah," I said. I began to see the predicament.
"He wants me to cash it for him," said Jacques.
"So do it."
"I don't know," said Jacques. "It's a lot of money."
"So don't do it."
"Yeah, but—"
I looked at him in exasperation. "Well, Jacques, what the hell do you want me to do?"
He stared down into his empty beer glass for a few seconds. He was more uncomfortable than I'd ever seen him. Over the years, he's derived a lot of fierce glee by reminding me that I was half-French and half-Berber, while he was superior to the tune of one whole European grandparent. It must have cost him a lot of self-esteem to come to me for advice.
"Maghrebi," he said, "you're getting quite a reputa-tion lately as someone who can fix things. You know, solve problems and stuff."
Sure, I was. Since I became Friedlander Bey's reluc-tant avenger, I've had to deal directly and violently with some vicious bad-guy types. Now many of my friends looked at me differently. I imagined they were whispering to each other, "Be careful of Maiid—these days, he can arrange to have your legs broken."
I was becoming a force to be reckoned with in the Budayeen—and beyond it as well, in the rest of the city. Occasionally I had misgivings about that. As interested as I was in the tasks Papa gave me, despite the glamorous power I could now wield, there were still many days when all I really wanted was to run my little club in peace.
"What do you want me to do, Jacques? Strong-arm the guy who screwed Fuad? Grab him by the throat and shake him until he sells the van to him?"
"Well, no, Marid, that's silly. The guy doesn't even have the van anymore."
I'd come to the end of my patience. "Then what, god-damn it?"
Jacques looked at me and then immediately looked away. "I took the cashier's check from Fuad and I don't know what to do with it. Just tell me what you'd do."
"Jeez, Jacques, I'd deposit it. I'd put it in my account and wait for it to clear. When the twenty-four hundred kiam showed up on my balance, I'd withdraw it and give it to Fuad. But not before. Wait for the check to clear first."
Jacques's face widened in a shaky smile. "Thanks, Marid. You know they call you Al-Amin on the Street now? 'The Trustworthy.' You're a big man in the Budayeen these days."
Some of my poorer neighbors had begun referring to me as Shaykh Marid the Trustworthy, just because I'd loaned them a little money and opened a few soup kitch-ens. No big deal. After all, the holy Qur'an requires us to look after the welfare of others.
"Yeah," I said sourly, "Shaykh Marid. That's me, all right."
Jacques chewed his lip and then came to a decision. "Then why don't you do it?" he said. He pulled the pale green check from his shirt pocket and put it down in front of me. "Why don't you go ahead and deposit it for Fuad? I really don't have the time."
I laughed. "You don't have the time?"
"I got some other things to worry about. Besides, there are reasons why I don't want the twenty-four hun-dred kiam showing up on my bank balance."
I stared at him for a moment. This was just so typical. "Your problem, Jacques, is that tonight you came real close to doing someone a good deed, but you're catching yourself in the nick of time. No, I don't see any reason why I should."
"I'm asking you as a friend, Marid."
"I'll do this much," I said. "I'll stand up for Fuad. If you're so afraid of being stiffed, I'll guarantee the check. Got something to write with?" Jacques handed me a pen and I turned the check over and endorsed it, first with the name of the guy who'd broken Fuad's heart, then with my own signature. Then I pushed the check back toward him with my fingertips.
"I appreciate it, Marid," he said.
"You know, Jacques, you should've paid more atten-tion to fairy stories when you were young. You're acting like one of the bad princes who pass by the old woman in distress on the road. Bad princes always end up getting eaten by a djinn, you know. Or are you mostly European types immune to folk wisdom?"
"I don't need the moral lecture," said Jacques with a scowl.
"Listen, I expect something from you in return."
He gave me a weak smile. "Sure, Marid. Business is business."
"And action is action. That's how things work around here. I want you to take a little job for me, man ami. For the last few months now, Friedlander Bey has been talk-ing about getting involved with the datalink industry. He told me to watch out for a bright-eyed, hard-working per-son to represent his new enterprise. How would you like to get in on the ground floor?"
Jacques's good humor disappeared. "I don't know if I have the time," he said. His voice was very worried.
"You'll love it. You'll be making so much money, in-shallah, you'll forget all about your other activities." This was one of those cases when the will of God was synony-mous with Friedlander Bey.
His eyes shifted back and forth like a small animal in a trap. "I really don't want—"
"I think you do want to, Jacques. But don't worry about it for now. We'll discuss it over lunch in a day or two. Now I'm glad you came to me with your problem. I think this will work out very nicely for both of us."
"Got to deposit this in the bank machine," he said. He got up from his stool, muttered something under his breath, and went back out into the night. I was willing to bet that he deeply regretted passing by Chiri's tonight. I almost laughed at the look on his face when he left.
Not much later, a tall, strong black man with a shaven head and a grim expression came into the club. It was my slave, Kmuzu. He stood just inside the door, waiting for me to pay Chiri and the dancers and lock up the bar. Kmuzu was there to drive me home. He was also there to spy on me for Friedlander Bey.
Chiri was always glad to see him. "Kmuzu, honey, sit down and have a drink!" she said. It was the first time she'd sounded cheerful in at least six hours. She wouldn't have much luck with him, though. Chiri was seriously hungry for Kmuzu's body, but he didn't seem to return her interest. I think Chiri'd begun to regret the ritual scars and tattoos on her face, because they seemed to disturb him. Still, every night she offered him a drink, and he replied that he was a devout Christian and didn't con-sume alcohol; he let her pour him a glass of orange juice instead. And he told her that he wouldn't consider a nor-mal relationship with a woman until he'd won his free-dom.
He understands that I intend to free him, but not just yet. For one thing, Papa—Friedlander Bey—had given Kmu/u to me, and he wouldn't permit me to announce any free-lance emancipations. For another, well, as much as I hate to admit it, I liked having Kmuzu around in that capacity.
"Here you go, Mr. Boss," said Chiri. She'd taken the day's receipts, pocketed half off the top according to our agreement, and now slapped a still-healthy stack of kiam on the bar in front of me. It had taken me quite a while to overcome my guilt at banking so much money every day without actually working, but in the end I'd succeeded. I was no longer bothered by it, because of the good works I sponsored, which cost me about 5 percent of my weekly income.
"Come get your money," I called. I wouldn't have to call twice. The assortment of real girls, sexchanges, and pre-operation debs who worked on Chiri's nightshift lined up to get their wages and the commissions on the drinks they'd hustled. Windy, Kandy, and Pualani took their money and hurried out into the night without a word. Lily, who'd harbored a crush on me for months, kissed me on the cheek and whispered an invitation to go out drink-ing with her. I just patted her cute little ass and turned to Yasmin.
She flipped her beautiful black hair over her shoulder. "Does Indihar wait up for you?" she said. "Or do you still go to bed alone?" She grabbed the cash from my hand and followed Lily out of the club. She'd never forgiven me for getting married.
"Want me to straighten her out, Marid?" asked Chiri.
"No, but thanks anyway." I was grateful for her misun-derstanding, Chiri had long been my best friend in the city.
"Everything okay with Indihar?" she asked.
"Everything's just fine. I hardly ever see her. She has an apartment for herself and the kids in the other wing of Papa's mansion. Yasmin was right about me going to bed alone."
"Uh huh," said Chiri. "That won't last long. I saw the way you used to stare at Indihar."
"It's just a marriage of convenience."
"Uh huh. Well, I got my money, so I'm going home. Though I don't know why I bother, there's nobody wait-ing there for me, either. I got every sex-moddy Honey Filar ever made, but nobody to jam with. Guess I'll just pull my old shawl around my shoulders and sit in my rocking chair with my memories, and rock and rock until I fall asleep. Such a waste of my sexual prime, though." She kept looking at Kmuzu with her eyes all big and round, and trying real hard to stifle her grin but not having much success. Finally, she just scooped up her zipper bag, downed a shot of tende from her private stock, and left Kmuzu and me alone in the club.
"You're not really needed here every night, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. "The woman, Chiriga, is fully able to keep order. It would be better for you to remain at home and tend to your more pressing concerns."
"Which concerns are those, Kmuzu?' I asked, tapping off all the lights and following him out onto the sidewalk. I locked up the club and began walking down the Street toward the great eastern gate, beyond which lay the Bou-levard il-Jameel and my car.
"You have important work to do for the master of the house."
He meant Papa. "Papa can get along without me for a little longer," I said. "I'm still recuperating from my ordeal."
I did not in any way want to be a heavy hitter. I did not want to be Shaykh Martd Audran al-Amin. I desper-ately wanted to go back to scrabbling for a living, maybe missing a meal now and then but having the satisfaction of being my own man, and not being marked for doom by all the other heavy hitters in the game.
You just couldn't explain that kind of thing to Fried-lander Bey. He had an answer for everything; sometimes the answer was bribes and rewards, and sometimes it was physical torture. It was like complaining to God about sand fleas. He has more important things on His mind.
A warm breeze offered conflicting fragrances: roasting meat from the cookshops, spilled beer, the scent of garde-nias, the stink of vomit. Down the block, a starved-looking man in a long white shirt and white cotton trousers was using a green plastic hose to wash the night's trash from the sidewalk into the gutter. He grinned toothlessly at us as we approached, turning the stream of water to the side as we passed. "Shaykh Marid," he said in a hoarse voice. I nodded to him, sure that I'd never seen him before.
Even with Kmuzu beside me, I felt terribly forlorn. The Budayeen did that to me sometimes, very late at night. Even the Street, which was never completely quiet, was mostly deserted, and our footsteps echoed on the bricks and flat paving stones. Music came from another club a block away, the raucous noise worn to a mournful smoothness by the distance. I carried the dregs of my last White Death in a plastic go-cup, and I swallowed it, tast-ing only ice water and lime and a hint of gin. I wasn't ready for the night to be ending.
As we walked nearer to the arched gate at the eastern end of the walled quarter, I felt a great, expectant hush settle over me. I shuddered. I wasn't sure if what I felt was some mysterious signal from my unconscious mind, or merely the result of too many drinks and too much tiredness.
I stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk at the corner of Third Street. Kmuzu stopped, too, and gave me a ques-tioning look. Bright blood-red neon zigzags framed a holo display for one of the inexpensive Kafiristani bodmod clin-ics on the Street. I glanced at the holo for a moment, watching a plump, slack-featured boy metamorphose into a slender, voluptuous girl. Hurray for the miracles of time-lapse holography and elective surgery. I turned my face up to the sky. I suddenly understood that my few days of respite were coming to an end, that I'd have to move along to the next stage of my develop-ment. Of course, I've had this sensation before. Many times, as a matter of fact, but this was different. Tonight I had no illicit drugs in my system at all.
"Jeez," I muttered, feeling a chill in that desert sum-mer night, and leaning against the clinic's plate-glass front.
"What is it, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.
I looked at him for a moment, grateful for his pres-ence. I told him what had just passed through my dazzled mind.
"That was no message from the stars, yaa Sidi. That was what the master of the house told you this morning. You'd taken an unfortunate number of Sonneine tablets, so perhaps you don't remember. The master of the house said he had decided what the next step of his vengeance should be."
"That's what I was afraid of, Kmuzu. Any idea what he means?" I liked it better when I thought the crazy notion had come from outer space.
"He does not share all his thoughts with me, yaa Sidi."
1 heard a low rustling sound and I turned, suddenly afraid. It was only the wind. As we walked the rest of the way con-cern. Except for a few brief periods of unfortunate down the Street, the wind grew stronger and louder, until it was whipping scraps of paper and fallen leaves in fierce whirling gusts. The wind began to drag sullen clouds across the night sky, covering the stars, hiding the fat yellow moon.