Chapter 9

It was Shaknahyi's small brown notebook, the one he'd carried in his hip pocket. The first time I'd seen it was U when we'd investigated Blanca's murder. Now I stared at its vinyl cover, smeared with bloody fingerprints, and wondered about Shaknahyi's coded entries. I supposed I was going to have to find out what they all meant.

This was a week after my visit to Jirji and Indihar's apartment. The day had started off on a low note and it never improved. I looked up to see Kmuzu standing beside my bed holding a tray of orange juice, toast, and coffee. I guess he'd been waiting for my wake-up daddy to kick in. He looked so sick that I almost felt sorry for the poor sucker. "Good morning, yaa Sidi," he said softly.

I felt like hell too. "Where are my clothes?"

Kmuzu winced. "I don't know, yaa Sidi. I don't remember what you did with them last night."

I didn't remember much either. There was nothing but sick blackness from the time I came in the front door late last night until just a moment ago. I crawled out of bed naked, my head throbbing, my stomach threatening immediate upheaval. "Help me find my jeans," I said. "My pillcase is in my jeans."

"This is why the Lord forbids drinking," said Kmuzu, I glanced at him; his eyes were closed and he was still holding the tray, but it was tilting dangerously. There was going to be coffee and orange juice all over my bed in a few seconds. That wasn't important to me right then.

My clothes weren't under the bed, which was the logical place to look. They weren't in the closet, and they weren't in the dressing room or the bathroom. I looked on the table in the dining area and in my small kitchen. No luck. I finally found my shoes and shirt rolled up in a ball in

the bookcase, crammed between some paperback novels by Lutfy Gad, a Palestinian detective writer of the middle twenty-first century. My jeans had been folded neatly and hidden on my desk beneath several thick sheaves of computer printout.

I didn't even put the pants on. I just grabbed the pillcase and hurried back into the bedroom. My plan was to swallow some opiates, maybe a dozen Sonneine, with the orange juice.

Too late. Kmuzu was staring down in horror at the sticky, sweet-smelling puddle on my bedclothes. He looked up at me. "I'll clean this up," he said, gulping down a wave of nausea, "immediately." His expression said that he expected to lose his comfortable job in the Big House, and be sent out to the dusty fields with the other unskilled brutes.

"Don't worry about it right now, Kmuzu. Just hand me that cup of—"

There was a gentle scraping sound as the coffee cup and saucer slid southward and tumbled over the edge of the tray. I looked at the ruined sheets. At least you couldn't see the orange juice stain anymore.

"Yaa Sidi—"

"I want a glass of water, Kmuzu. Right now."

It had been a hell of a night. I'd had the bright idea to go to the Budayeen after work. "I haven't had a night out in a long time," I said to Kmuzu when he arrived to pick me up at the station house.

"The master of the house is pleased that you're concentrating on your work."

"Yeah, you right, but that don't mean I can't see my friends now and then." I gave him directions to Jo-Mama's Greek club.

"If you do this, you will not get home until late, yaa Sidi."

"I know it'll be late. Would you rather I went out drinking in the morning?"

"You must be at the station house in the morning."

"That's a long time from now," I pointed out.

"The master of the house—"

"Turn left here, Kmuzu. Now!" I wasn't going to listen to any more argument. I guided him northwest through the twisting streets of the city. We left the car on

the boulevard and walked through the gate into the Budayeen.

Jo-Mama's club was on Third Street, jammed tight against the high northern wall of the quarter. Rocky, the relief barmaid, frowned at me when I took a stool at the front bar. She was short and hefty with brushy black hair, and she didn't look glad to see me. "Ya want to see my manager's license, cop?" she said in a sour voice.

"Get a grip, Rocky. I just want a gin and bingara." I turned to Kmuzu, who was still standing behind me. "Grab a seat," I told him.

"Who's this?" said Rocky. "Your slave or something?"

I nodded. "Give him the same."

Kmuzu raised a hand. "Just some club soda, please," he said. Rocky glanced at me, and I shook my head slightly.

Jo-Mama came out of her office and grinned at me. "Marîd, where y'at? You ain't been comin' around no more."

"Been busy," I said. Rocky set a drink in front of me and an identical one in front of Kmuzu.

Jo-Mama smacked his shoulder. "You know your boss here got some guts," she said admiringly.

"I've heard the stories," said Kmuzu.

"Yeah, ain't we all?" said Rocky. Her lip curled just a

little.

Kmuzu sipped his gin and bingara and grimaced. "This club soda tastes strange," he said.

"It's the lime juice," I said hastily.

"Yeah, I put some lime in it for ya," said Rocky.

"Oh," said Kmuzu. He took another taste.

Jo-Mama snorted. She's the largest woman I've ever met—big, strong, and often friendly. She has a loud, gruff voice and a remarkable memory for who owes her money and who's done her dirt. When she laughs, you see beer splash out of glasses all around the bar; and when she gets angry, you don't hang around long enough to see anything. "Your friends are at a table in the back," she said.

"Who?"

"Mahmoud and the Half-Hajj and that snotty Christian."

"Used to be my friends," I said. Jo-Mama shrugged. I

picked up my drink and went deeper into the dark cavern of the club. Kmuzu followed me.

Mahmoud, Jacques, Saied, and Saied's adolescent American lover, Abdul-Hassan, were sitting at a table near the edge of the stage. They didn't see me at first because they were appraising the dancer, a stranger to me but clearly a real girl. I moved a couple of chairs up to their table, and Kmuzu and I sat down.

"How ya doin', Marîd?" said the Half-Hajj.

"Look who it is," said Mahmoud. "Come in to inspect the permits?"

"That's a bum line I heard already from Rocky,"

It didn't bother Mahmoud. Although as a girl he'd been lithe and pretty enough to dance here in Jo-Mama's club, he'd put on weight and muscle after the sexchange. I wouldn't want to fight him to see which of us was tougher.

"Why are we watching this bint?" asked Saied. Abdul-Hassan was glaring spitefully at the girl on stage. The Half-Hajj was teaching him well.

"She's not so bad," said Jacques, giving us the benefit of his militantly conventional viewpoint. "She's very pretty, don't you think?"

Saied spat on the floor. "The debs on the Street are prettier."

"The debs on the Street are constructs," said Jacques. "This girl's natural."

"Shellfish toxin is natural, if that's what you care about," said Mahmoud. "I'd rather watch somebody who's spent some time and effort making herself look good."

"Someone who's spent a fortune on bodmods, you mean," said Jacques.

"What's her name?" I asked.

They ignored my question. "You hear that Blanca's dead?" Jacques said to Mahmoud.

"Probably beaten to death in a police riot," Mahmoud replied. His eyes flicked at me.

I wasn't going to put up with any more of this. I got out of my chair. "Finish your . . . club soda," I said to Kmuzu.

Saied stood up and came closer to me. "Hey, Marîd," he whispered, "don't pay any attention to 'em. They're just trying to bubble your bile."

"It's working," I said.

"They'll get tired of it soon, fiverything'll go back the way it used to be."

I downed the rest of my drink. "Sure," I said, surprised by Saied's naivete. Abdul-Hassan gave me a flirtatious look, batting his thick eyelashes. I wondered what sex he'd be when he grew up.

Jo-Mama had disappeared into her office again, and Rocky didn't bother saying goodbye. Kmuzu trailed me out of the bar. "Well," I said to him, "enjoying yourself?"

He gave me a blank stare. He didn't look pleased.

"We'll pass by Chiri's," I told him. "If anybody even looks at me cross-eyed in there, I can throw him out. It's my club." I liked the way that sounded.

I led Kmuzu south, and then turned up the Street. He came along with a solemn and disapproving look on his face. He wasn't the perfect drinking companion, but he was loyal. I knew he wouldn't abandon me if he met some hot girl somewhere.

"Why don't you loosen up?" I asked him.

"It's not my job to be loose," he said.

"You're a slave. It's your job to be what I tell you to be. Gear down a. little."

I got a nice welcome when I went into the club. "Here he comes, ladies," called Chiri, "the boss man." This time she didn't sound bitter when she called me that. There were three sexchanges and two debs working with her. The real girls were all on the day shift with Indihar.

It felt great to feel at home somewhere. "How's it going, Chiri?" I asked.

She looked disgusted. "Slow night," she said. "No money."

"You always say that." I went down and took my usual seat at the far end of the bar, where it curved around toward the stage. I could sit there and look down the whole length of the bar, and see anybody coming into the club. Kmuzu sat beside me.

Chiri flipped a cork coaster toward me. I tapped the place in front of Kmuzu, and Chiri nodded. "Who is this handsome devil?" she asked.

"His name's Kmuzu," I said. "He's uncommunicative."

Chiri grinned. "I can fix that. Where you from, honey?" she asked.

He spoke to Chiri in some African language, but neither she nor I understood a word of it. "I'm Sidi Martd's slave," he said.

Chiri was dismayed. She was almost speechless. "Slave? Forgive me for saying it, sweetie, but being a slave's nothing to brag about. You can't really make it sound like an achievement, you know?"

Kmuzu shook his head. "There is a long story behind it."

"I guess so," said Chiri, looking at me for an explanation.

"If there's a story, nobody's told me," I said.

"Papa just gave him to you, right? Like he gave you the club." I nodded. Chiri put a gin and bingara on my coaster and another in front of Kmuzu. "If I was you," she said, "I'd be careful what I unwrapped under his Christmas tree from now on."

Yasmin watched me for half an hour before she came up to say hello, and then only because the other two changes were kissing on me and rubbing themselves up against me, trying to get in good with the new owner. It was working, too. "You come a long way, Marîd," Yasmin said.

I shrugged. "I feel like I'm still the same simple noraf I've always been."

"You know that's not true."

"Well, I owe it all to you. You're the one who bullied me into getting my skull amped, doing what Papa wanted."

Yasmin looked away. "Yeah, I guess so." She turned toward me again. "Listen, Marîd, I'm sorry if—"

I put my hand on hers. "Don't ever say you're sorry, Yasmin. We got past all that a long time ago."

She looked grateful. "Thanks, Marîd." She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then she hurried back down the bar where two dark-skinned merchant seamen had taken seats.

The rest of the night passed quickly. I downed one drink after another, and I made sure that Kmuzu did the same. He still thought he was drinking club soda with some strange lime juice in it.

Somewhere along the line I began to get drunk, and Kmuzu must have been nearly helpless. I recall Chiri closing the bar about three in the morning. She counted out the register and gave me the money. I gave half the receipts back to her as per our agreement, then paid Yasmin and the other four their wages. I still ended up with another thick wad of bills for myself.

I got a very enthusiastic goodnight kiss from a change named Lily, and a slip of paper with a commcode from someone named Rani. I think Rani gave a slip of paper to Kmuzu too, just to cover her bets.

That's when I really blacked out. I don't know how Kmuzu and I got home, but we didn't bring the car with us. I guess Chiri called us a cab. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed and Kmuzu was about to spill orange juice and hot coffee all over me.

"Where's that water?" I called. I stumbled around my suite, holding the sunnies in one hand and my shoes in the other.

"Here, yaa Sidi."

I took the glass from him and swallowed the tabs. "There's a couple left for you," I said.

He looked appalled. "I can't—"

"It's not recreational. It's medicine." Kmuzu overcame his aversion to drugs long enough to take a single Sonneine.

I was still far from sober, and the sunnies I'd taken didn't help steady me. I didn't hurt anymore, but I was only vaguely conscious. I dressed quickly without paying much attention to what I put on. Kmuzu offered me breakfast, but the whole idea turned my stomach; for once, Kmuzu didn't badger me into eating. I think he was glad not to have to cook.

We stumbled blearily downstairs. I called a taxi to take me to work, and Kmuzu came with me to pick up the sedan. In the cab, I let my head fall back against the seat, and I closed my eyes and listened to peculiar noises inside my head. My ears were thrumming like the engine room of an ancient tugboat.

"May your day be blessed," said Kmuzu, when we got to the station house.

"May I live to see lunch, you mean," I said. I got out of

the cab and pushed my way through my crowd of young fans, throwing them a little money.

Sergeant Catavina gave me a jaundiced look when I got to my cubicle. "You don't look well," he said.

"I don't feel well."

Catavina clucked his tongue. "I'll tell you what I do when I get a little hung over."

"You don't show up for work," I said, dropping into my molded plastic chair. I didn't feel like conversing with him.

"That always works too," he said. He turned and left my cubicle. He didn't seem to like me, and I didn't seem to care.

Shaknahyi came by fifteen minutes later. I was still staring at my data deck, unable to dig into the mound of paperwork that waited on my desk. "Where you at?" he said. He didn't wait for an answer. "Hajjar wants to see us both right now."

"I'm not available," I said glumly.

"I'll tell him that. Come on, move your ass."

I followed him reluctantly down the corridor to Hajjar's little glass-walled office. We stood in front of his desk while he toyed with a small pile of paper clips. After a few seconds he looked up and studied us. It was a careful act. He had something difficult to tell us, and he wanted us to know that It Would Hurt Him More Than It Hurt Us. "I don't like havin' to do this," he said. He looked real sad.

"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.