The Exile Kiss

by George Alec Effinger

  "I'm reopening it." I shook the crumpled paper at him.

  "Right," he said, "go ahead. But there are going to be repercussions from this. I'm warning you."

  "I'm hoping for repercussions, Hajjar. I advise you to get out of the way of them."

  He stared at me for a few seconds. Then he said, "Yallah, your mother must've been a syphilitic camel, Audran, and your father was a Christian bastard."

  "Close," I said, and I turned my back on him and continued to murmur commands to the data deck. I suppose Hajjar stalked away.

  The first thing I did was call up the file on Khalid Maxwell. I didn't learn much. Evidently, the file had been tampered with and edited until there was very little information left. I did find out that Maxwell had been with the police force for four years, that he'd earned a commendation for bravery, and that he'd been killed while off-duty. According to the cop computer, he died while interceding in a violent argument between Friedlander Bey and myself in front of Maxwell's house at 23 Shams Alley.

  That was nonsense, of course. I didn't even know where Shams Alley was; I was sure it wasn't in the Budayeen. Maxwell was the second police officer from Hajjar's precinct to be killed during the year. That didn't look good for Hajjar, but of course it looked even worse for poor Maxwell.

  I had the data deck print out the file, and then I passed a little time by poking into other files. Lieutenant Hajjar's dossier gave even less information than it had the last time I looked. All mention of his own difficulties with the force's Internal Affairs Department had been erased. There wasn't much left but his name, age, and address.

  My own file listed me as the killer of Khalid Maxwell (released pending appeal). That reminded me that the clock was running, and there were only a few weeks left of my freedom. It would be very hard to prove my innocence—and Papa's—from inside a prison cell or with my head on the chopping block. I decided to stir things up a little and see what happened.

  When I left the station house, I found Kmuzu sitting in the car a little farther up Walid al-Akbar Street. I got into the back seat and told him to drive me to the Budayeen's eastern gate. When we got there, I sent him home because I didn't know how long my business would take. When Kmuzu objected, I told him I could get a cab to come home. He frowned and said he'd rather wait for me, but I just told him in a firm voice to do what I said.

  I took with me the portable datalink unit Friedlander Bey and I were marketing, and as I walked up the Street toward the Café Solace, my phone rang. I undipped it from my belt and said, "Hello."

  "Audran?" asked a nasal voice that sounded fat with disgust.

  "Yeah," I said, "who is this?"

  "Kenneth. Calling on behalf of Shaykh Reda Abu Adil."

  That explained the disgust; the feeling was definitely mutual. "Yeah, Kenny, what do you want."

  There was a brief pause. "My name is Kenneth, not Kenny. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that in mind."

  I grinned. "Sure, pal. Now what's behind this call?"

  "Shaykh Reda has just heard that you're digging around in the Khalid Maxwell case. Don't."

  The news sure had traveled fast. "Don't?"

  "Right," said Kenneth. "Just don't. Shaykh Reda is concerned for your safety, as you are an officer in the Jaish, and he fears what might happen to you if you continue this investigation."

  I laughed without humor. "I'll tell you what will happen if I don't continue the investigation: Papa and I will lose our appeal and we'll be put to death."

  "We understand that, Audran. If you want to save your necks, there are two ways to proceed, the right way and the wrong way. The right way is to establish a bullet-proof alibi for yourselves the night of the murder. The wrong way is to go on doing what you're doing."

  "That's great, Ken, but to tell the truth, I can't even remember what I did on the night in question."

  "It's Kenneth," he growled, just before he hung up. I grinned again and put my phone back on my belt.

  I found Jacques and Mahmoud playing dominoes at the Café Solace. I pulled up a chair to their table and watched for a while. Finally, old Ibrahim came and asked if I wanted anything. I ordered a White Death, and Mahmoud looked at me curiously. "How long you been here, Marîd?" he asked. "We been playing dominoes and I never saw you come up."

  "Not long," I told him. I turned to my other friend. "Jacques," I said, "you ready to start pushing data this afternoon?"

  He gave me a look which said he regretted ever agreeing to help me out. "Don't you have more important things to do?" he said. "I mean, like clearing your name and reputation."

  I nodded. "Don't worry, I've started taking care of that, too."

  "We heard," said Mahmoud.

  "The rumor on the Street is that you're looking for someone to pin Maxwell's murder on," said Jacques.

  "Instead of proving where you were the night of the crime," said Mahmoud. "You're going about it all wrong. You're trying to do it the hard way."

  "That's just what Abu Adil's current Bendable Benny told me," I said slowly. "What a coincidence."

  "Kenneth told you that?" said Mahmoud. "Well, see, he's probably right."

  I didn't have any specific questions to ask them, so I changed the subject. "Ready to go, Jacques?" I said.

  "Well, Marîd, to tell the truth, my stomach hurts today. How 'bout tomorrow afternoon?"

  "Oh, you'll be on your own tomorrow," I said, smiling, "but you're also going with me today."

  I waited patiently until Mahmoud won the domino game, and then as Jacques settled up his wager. "It's not starting out to be a good day for me," said Jacques. He was well dressed, as usual, but he wore that miffy Christian look that all his friends hated so much. He looked as if he wanted to go somewhere and start a new life under another name.

  I looked at him from the corner of my eye and stifled a smile. He was so upset. "What's wrong, Jacques?" I asked.

  His upper lip pulled back in disdain. "I'll tell you one thing, Marîd," he said. "This job is beneath me. It's not appropriate for me to act like a ... a common salesman."

  I couldn't help laughing. "Don't think of yourself as a salesman, if that's your problem. Truthfully, you're not. You're much more than that. Try to see the whole picture, O Excellent One."

  Jacques didn't look convinced. "I am looking at the big picture. I see myself going into a bar or a club, taking out my wares, and trying to wangle money out of the proprietor. That's retail sales. It's demeaning to someone of my blood. Have I ever told you that I'm three-quarters European?"

  I sighed. He'd told us nearly every day for the last seven years. "Haven't you ever wondered who works retail sales in Europe?"

  "Americans," said Jacques, shrugging.

  I rubbed my aching forehead. "Forget sales. You won't be a salesman. You'll be a Data Placement Specialist. And when you get rolling, you'll be promoted to Information Retrieval Engineer. With a suitable increase in your commission percentage."

  Jacques glared. "You can't trick me, Marîd," he said.

  "That's the great part! I don't have to trick you. I've got enough power these days to twist your arm and make you delighted to help me."

  Jacques gave a short, humorless laugh. "My arm is un-twistable, O Shaykh. You're still street scum, just like the rest of us."

  I shrugged. "That may well be true, my Christian friend, but I'm street scum with Habib and Labib at my command."

  "Who are they?"

  "The Stones That Speak," I said calmly. I saw the color go out of Jacques's face. Everyone in the Budayeen knew about Papa's huge bodyguards, but I was one of the few privileged to know their individual names. Of course, I still couldn't tell which one was which, but that was all right because they always traveled together.

  Jacques spat on the ground in front of me. "It's true what they say about power corrupting," he said bitterly.

  "You're wrong, Jacques," I said in a quiet voice. "I wouldn't threaten one of my friends. I don't need that power. I'm only counting on you to r
eturn a favor. Didn't I cover Fuad's check for you? Didn't you agree to help me?"

  He winced. "Yes, well, if it's a matter of honor, well then, of course I'm happy to return the favor."

  I clapped him on the back. "I knew I could count on you."

  "Anytime, Marîd." But the look on his face told me his stomach still bothered him.

  We arrived at Frenchy's club, which was across the Street and up a block from my own. Frenchy was a huge, burly, black-bearded guy who looked like he ought to be rolling barrels into a warehouse in some sunny French seaport. He was as tough a joker as I've ever met. Disturbances didn't last long in Frenchy's place.

  "Where y'at, Marîd?" called Dalia, Frenchy's barmaid.

  "Just fine, Dalia. Frenchy around?"

  "He's in back. I'll go get him." She tossed her bar towel down and disappeared into the back office. There weren't very many customers, but it was still early in the day.

  "Can I buy you a drink?" I asked Jacques while we waited.

  "The Lord doesn't approve of liquor," he said. "You should know that."

  "I do," I said. "I do know that God disapproves. But He's never said anything directly to me about it."

  "Oh no? What do you call vomiting all over yourself? What do you call blackouts? What do you call getting your face smashed in because you were so drunk you said the wrong thing to the wrong person? And you shouldn't be blasphemous."

  I couldn't take him seriously. "I've seen you drink your share, too."

  Jacques nodded vigorously. "Yes, my friend, but then I go to confession and do my penance and then everything's all right again."

  I was saved from further religious exegesis by Frenchy, who showed up in the nick of time. "What's happening?" he said, taking the bar stool to my right.

  "Well, Frenchy," I said, "it's nice to see you, and I'm glad I'm still welcome in your club, but we don't really have time to sit here and chat. I want to sell you something."

  "You want to sell me something, noraf" he said in his gruff voice. "Wait a minute. I'm impossible to scam when I'm sober."

  "I thought you stopped drinking," I said, "On account of your stomach."

  "Well, I started again," said Frenchy. He signaled to his barmaid, and Dalia brought him an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker. I don't know what it is, but most of these ex-seamen won't drink anything but Johnnie Walker. I first noticed it over in Jo-Mama's club among the Greek merchant sailors, and the two Filipino bars on Seventh Street. Frenchy twisted open the bottle and filled a tumbler half full. "Gonna give you a fair chance," said Frenchy, gulping down the whiskey and refilling the tumbler.

  "Let me have a gin and bingara," I told the barmaid.

  "Want some lime juice in that?" Dalia asked.

  I smiled at her. "You never forget."

  She shuddered in disgust. "How could I?" she muttered. "What about you, Jacques?"

  "You've got that Ecuadorian beer on draft? I'll have one." Dalia nodded and drew Jacques his beer.

  Frenchy threw down a second glass of whiskey and belched. "Eh bien, Marîd," he said, rubbing his thick beard, "what's in the suitcase?"

  I put it up on the bar between us and snapped open the latches. "You're going to love this," I said.

  "Not yet," said Frenchy, "but maybe in a few minutes." He downed a third tumbler of Johnnie Walker.

  "Whatcha got, Marid?" said Dalia, resting her elbows on the bar.

  Frenchy glared at her, and his head wobbled a little. "Go wipe off some tables," he told her. He was beginning to feel the liquor. That was good.

  I opened the lid of the suitcase and let Frenchy look at the datalink. It was a state-of-the-art terminal with just enough memory so that it wouldn't forget its own job. It was useless unless it was connected to a mainframe somewhere. Friedlander Bey had contracted with an electronics firm in Bosnia to supply the datalinks at a price well below the fair market standard. That was because the Bosnian corporation was owned by an industrial conglomerate with its headquarters in Bahrain; both the chief executive officer and the vice president for sales owed their current positions of power, wealth, and comfort to Papa's intervention in local political affairs some ten years before.

  I reached over and poured Frenchy a fourth drink. "Merde alors," he murmured.

  "Friedlander Bey wants you to be the first in the Budayeen," I told him.

  The big Frenchman was sipping his whiskey now, not gulping. "First for what, and will I live through it?" he asked.

  I smiled. "You're gonna get the chance to be the first on the Street to have one of these datalinks. You can set it up right down there on the end of the bar, right where people can see it when they first come into the club."

  "Uh huh," said Frenchy. "The fuck do I want one?"

  I glanced at Jacques to see if he was paying attention. "These units will access more than the city's Info service," I said. "Your customers will be able to tap into a global data network that will provide almost unlimited information."

  Frenchy shook his head. "How much is it gonna cost 'em?"

  "One kiam. Just one kiam per data request."

  "Minute, papillon! The city's Info service is free. All you got to do is pick up a phone."

  I smiled again. "Not for long, Frenchy. Nobody knows this yet, so don't go spreading it around. Friedlander Bey's bought the Info service from the city."

  Frenchy laughed. "What did he do, bribe the amir?"

  I shrugged. "He persuaded the amir. It doesn't make any difference how. The amir has just come to believe that Papa will administer the service better than the previous Public Service Commission. Of course, Papa's also explained that in order to give the people the service they deserve, there will have to be a small fee for each transaction."

  Frenchy nodded. "So the free Info service is being phased out. And these datalink units will take its place. And you and Papa are gonna be in charge, doling out bits of information. What happens if someone wants the scoop on Papa's personal life?"

  I turned away and casually drank half my White Death. "Oh," I said calmly, "we're unfortunately going to limit the free access of certain people to certain data."

  Frenchy slammed his fist down on the bar and laughed. Actually, it was more like a bellow. "He is magnificent!" he cried. "He's throttled the exchange of information, and he'll decide who may or may not benefit! Wait until Abu Adil finds out!"

  Jacques leaned closer. "I didn't know about any of this, Marîd," he said softly. "You didn't mention any of this to me, and I think that dissolves our agreement."

  I indicated that he should drink up his beer. "That's why I came along with you today," I said. "I want you to be clear about all the ramifications. It's the dawn of an exciting age."

  "But I don't think I like it. What am I getting into?"

  I spread my hands. "One of the greatest commercial enterprises in history," I said.

  A customer came into the club just then, a tall man dressed in a European-style business suit. He had gray hair that had been expensively cut and styled, and at his neck he wore a silver brooch set with many diamonds and a cluster of large emeralds in the center. He carried a briefcase not much smaller than my own, and he stood in the doorway letting his eyes adjust to the darkness in Frenchy's bar.

  One of Frenchy's dancers went to him and invited him in. I didn't know the girl. She may have been new to the Budayeen, but if she stayed around any time at all I'd eventually learn more than I wanted to know about her. She was wearing a long gown of very sheer material, so that her small breasts and her dark pubic triangle were visible, even in that dim light. "Would you like a drink?" she asked.

  The elegantly dressed man squinted at her. "Is your name Theoni?" he asked.

  The dancer's shoulders slumped. "No," she said, "but she's over there. Theoni, this is one of yours."

  Theoni was one of the sweetest girls on the Street, completely out of place in Frenchy's club. She'd never worked for me; but I'd be overjoyed if she ever came into Chiriga's looking for a job.
She was small and lithe and graceful, and she'd had only a moderate amount of surgery. Her bodmods accentuated her natural prettiness without making her into the kind of caricature we saw too often around there. Unlike most of the dancers, she'd never had her brain wired at all, and when she wasn't entertaining a customer, she sat by herself near the back of Frenchy's, drinking Sharâb and reading paperback books. I think it was her reading that I found most attractive about her.

  She emerged from the dark rear of the bar and greeted the customer, leading him to a table right behind where Frenchy, Jacques, and I were sitting. Dalia came over to take his order, and he got a beer for himself and a champagne cocktail for Theoni.

  Frenchy poured himself another healthy round of Johnnie Walker. "Dalia," he said, "gimme a glass of mineral water." He turned to me. "She's the best barmaid on the Street, you know that? You think Chiri's a good barmaid, I wouldn't trade Dalia for Chiri if you threw in Yasmin as well. Jeez, how do you put up with her? Yasmin, I mean. Always late. She's pretty for a boy and she makes money, but she's got a temper—"

  "Frenchy," I said, cutting off his drunken monologue, "believe me, I know all about Yasmin's temper."

  "I suppose you would. How does she take working for you now that you're married?" He laughed again, a low rumbling sound from deep within his chest.

  "Let's talk about the terminal, Frenchy," I said, trying again to steer the conversation back on course. "You're gonna want one, because everyone else on the Street is gonna have one, and without one you'll lose business. Like not having a phone or a bathroom."

  "Bathroom only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays anyway," muttered Frenchy. "What's in it for me?"

  I took that to mean what was in it for him if he accepted the terminal. "Well, my friend, we're prepared to loan you some money if you'll do us the favor of letting us install our first datalink here in your club. One thousand kiam in cash, right here and now, and you don't have to do a thing for it. Just sign the order form, and tomorrow a wirecutter will come in and set up the unit on the end of your bar. You won't have to lift a finger."

  "A thousand kiam?" he said. He leaned close to me and stared into my eyes. He was breathing heavily in my face, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.