When Gravity Fails

by George Alec Effinger

  “I do not enjoy evasions, my nephew. It happens very often that I must ask someone these difficult questions, and he always begins by making evasive answers. This continues until one of my servants persuades him to stop. The next stage is a series of answers that do not sound so evasive, but are clearly lies. Once again, my guest must be persuaded not to waste valuable time this way.” His voice was tired and low. I tried to turn to face him again, and once more the huge hand grasped my shoulder, more painfully this time. Papa went on. “After a while, one is at last brought to the point where truth and cooperation seem far the most reasonable course, yet it often makes me sad to see in what state my guest is in when he makes this discovery. My advice, then, is to pass through evasion and lies quickly—better still, not at all—and proceed directly to truth. We will all benefit.”

  The stone hand did not leave my shoulder. I felt as if my bones were slowly being crushed into white powder inside my skin. I made no sound.

  “You owed this man a sum of money,” said Friedlander Bey. “You owe him no longer, because he is dead. I will collect that sum, my nephew, and I will do that which the Book allows.”

  “I didn’t owe him any money!” I cried. “Not one goddamn fîq!”

  A second stone hand began to crush my other shoulder. “The dog’s tail is still bent, O Lord,” murmured the Stone That Speaks.

  “I do not lie,” I said, gasping a little. “If I tell you that I owed Sonny nothing, it is the truth. I am known everywhere in the city as one who does not lie.”

  “It is true that I have never had cause to doubt you before, my nephew.”

  “Perhaps he has found reasons to take up the practice, O Lord,” murmured the Stone That Speaks.

  “Sonny?” said Friedlander Bey, returning to the table. “No one cares about Sonny. He is no friend of mine, or of anyone; to that I can attest. If he is dead, too, then it but makes the air over the Budayeen more pleasant to breathe. No, my nephew, I have asked you to join me here to talk about the murder of my friend, Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd.”

  “Abdoulaye,” I said. The pain was immense; I was beginning to see little flecks of red before my eyes. My voice was hoarse and barely audible. “I did not even know that Abdoulaye was dead.”

  Papa rubbed his forehead again. “There have been several deaths recently among my friends. More deaths than is natural.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You must prove to me that you did not kill Abdoulaye. No one else has such a reason to wish him ill fortune.”

  “And what reason do you think I have?”

  “The obligation I mentioned. Abdoulaye was not well-loved, that is true; and he may well have been disliked, even hated. Yet everyone knew that he had my protection, and that a harmful thing done to him was a harmful thing done to me. His murderer will die, just as he died.”

  I tried to raise my hand, but I could not. “How did he die?” I asked.

  Papa looked at me through lowered eyelids. “You must tell me how he died.”

  “I—” The stone hands left my shoulders; that only made the pain there get worse. Then I felt the fingers wrap themselves around my throat.

  “Answer quickly,” said Papa gently, “or very soon you will not be able to answer at all, ever again.”

  “Shot,” I croaked. “Once. Small lead bullet.”

  Papa made a slight, flicking gesture with one hand; the stone fingers released my throat. “No, he was not shot. Yet two other people have been killed with just such an antique weapon in the last fortnight. It is interesting to me that you know of that matter. One of them was under my protection.” He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. His coarse, trembling hands played with his empty coffee cup.

  The pain receded quickly, although my shoulders would be sore for days. “If he was not shot,” I said, “how was Abdoulaye murdered?”

  His eyes jerked back to my face. “I am not yet certain that you are not his killer,” he said.

  “You have said that I have the only motive, that I had an obligation to him. That obligation was paid several days ago. I owed him nothing.”

  Papa’s eyes opened wider. “You have some proof?”

  I rose out of my chair just a bit, to get the receipt that was still in my hip pocket. The stone hands returned to my shoulders instantly, but Papa waved them away again. “Hassan was there,” I said. “He’ll tell you.” I dug into my pocket and took out the paper, opened it, and passed it across the table. Friedlander Bey glanced at it, then studied it more closely. He looked beyond me, over my shoulder, and made a small motion with his head. I turned around, and the Stone had gone back to his post by the door.

  “O Shaykh, if I may ask,” I said, “who is it that told you of this debt? Who suggested to you that I was Abdoulaye’s murderer? It must be someone who did not know that I paid the debt in full.”

  The old man nodded slowly, opened his mouth as if to tell me, then thought better of it. “Ask no more questions,” he said.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. I wasn’t out of this room safely yet; I had to remember that. I couldn’t feel anything from the Paxium. Those tranquilizers had been a goddamn waste of money.

  Friedlander Bey looked down at his hands, which were toying again with his coffee cup. He signaled to the second Stone, who filled the cup with coffee. The servant looked at me, and I nodded; he gave me another cupful. “Where were you,” asked Papa, “about ten o’clock tonight?”

  “I was in the Café Solace, playing cards.”

  “Ah. What time did you begin playing cards?”

  “About half past eight.”

  “And you were in that café until midnight?”

  I thought back a few hours. “It was about half past twelve when we all left the Solace and went over to the Red Light. Sonny was stabbed somewhere between one o’clock and one-thirty, I’d say.”

  “Old Ibrihim at the Solace would not dispute your story?”

  “No, he would not.”

  Papa turned and nodded to the Stone That Speaks behind him. The Stone used the room’s telephone. A short time later, he came to the table and murmured in Papa’s ear. Papa sighed. “I’m very glad for you, my nephew, that you can account for those hours. Abdoulaye died between ten and eleven o’clock. I accept that you did not kill my friend.”

  “Praise Allah the Protector,” I said softly.

  “So I will tell you how Abdoulaye died. His body was found by my subordinate, Hassan the Shiite. Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd was murdered in a most foul manner, my nephew. I hesitate to describe it, lest some evil spirit seize the notion and prepare the same fate for me.”

  I recited Yasmin’s superstitious formula, and that pleased the old man. “May Allah preserve you, my nephew,” he said. “Abdoulaye lay in the alley behind Hassan’s shop, his throat slashed and blood smeared over him. There was little blood in the alley, however, so he was murdered in some other place and removed to the spot where Hassan found him. There were the horrible signs that he had been burned many times, on his chest, on his arms, on his legs, on his face, even upon his organs of procreation. When the police examined the body, Hassan learned that the filthy dog who murdered Abdoulaye had first used my friend’s body as a woman’s, in the mouth and in the forbidden place of the sodomite. Hassan was quite distraught, and had to be sedated.” Papa looked deeply agitated himself as he told me this, as if he had never seen or heard anything so profoundly unnerving. I knew that he had become accustomed to death, that he had caused people to die and that other people had died because of their association with him. Abdoulaye’s case, though, affected him passionately. It wasn’t really the killing; it was the absolute and appalling disregard for even the most elementary code of conscience. Friedlander Bey’s hands were shaking even worse than before.

  “It is the same way that Tamiko was killed,” I said.

  Papa looked at me, unable to speak for a moment. “How did you come to be in possession of that information?” he asked.

  I cou
ld sense that he was playing again with the notion that I might be responsible for these killings. I seemed to have facts and details that otherwise shouldn’t have been known to me. “I discovered Tami’s body,” I said. “I reported it to Lieutenant Okking.”

  Papa nodded and looked down again. “I cannot tell you how filled with hatred I am,” he said. “It makes me grieve. I have tried to control such feelings, to live graciously as a prosperous man, if that is the will of Allah, and to give thanks for my wealth and do Allah honor by harboring neither anger nor jealousy. Yet my hand is always forced, someone always tries to probe for my weakness. I must respond harshly or lose all I have worked to attain. I wish only peace, and my reward is resentment. I will be avenged on this most abominable of butchers, my nephew! This mad executioner who defiles the holy work of Allah will die! By the sacred beard of the Prophet, I will have my vengeance!”

  I waited a moment until he had calmed himself a little. “O Shaykh,” I said, “there have been two people murdered by leaden bullets, and two who have been tortured and bled in this same way. I believe there may be more deaths to come. I have been seeking a friend who has disappeared. She was living with Tamiko, and she sent me a frightened message. I fear for her life.”

  Papa frowned at me. “I have no time for your troubles,” he muttered. He was still preoccupied with the outrage of Abdoulaye’s death. In some ways, from the old man’s point of view, it was even more frightening than what the same killer had done to Tamiko. “I was prepared to believe that you were responsible, my nephew; if you had not proven your innocence, you would have died a lingering and terrible death in this room. I thank Allah that such an injustice did not occur. You seemed to be the most likely person upon whom to direct my wrath, but now I must find another. It is only a matter of time until I discover his identity.” His lips pressed together into a cruel, bloodless smile. “You say you were playing cards at the Café Solace. Then the others with you will have the same alibi. Who were these men?”

  I named my friends, glad to provide an explanation of their whereabouts; they would not have to face such an inquisition as this.

  “Would you like some more coffee?” asked Friedlander Bey wearily.

  “May Allah guide us, I have had enough,” I said.

  “May your times be prosperous,” said Papa. He gave a heavy sigh. “Go in peace.”

  “By your leave,” I said, rising.

  “May you arise in the morning in health.”

  I thought of Abdoulaye. “Inshallah,” I said. I turned, and the Stone That Speaks had already opened the door. I felt a great relief flood through me as I left the room. Outside, beneath a clear black sky pricked with bright stars, was Sergeant Hajjar, leaning against his patrol car. I was surprised; I thought he’d gone back to the city long ago.

  “I see you made it out all right,” he said to me. “Go around the other side.”

  “Sit in front?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” We got into the car; I’d never sat in the front of a police car before. If my friends could only see me now. . . . “You want a smoke?” Hajjar asked, taking out a pack of French cigarettes.

  “No, I don’t do that,” I said.

  He started the car and whipped it around in a tight circle, then headed back to the center of town, lights flashing and siren screaming. “You want to buy some sunnies?” he asked. “I know you do that.”

  I would have loved to get some more sunnies, but buying them from a cop seemed odd. The drug traffic was tolerated in the Budayeen, the way the rest of our harmless foibles were tolerated. Some cops don’t enforce every law; there were undoubtedly plenty of officers one could safely buy drugs from. I just didn’t trust Hajjar, not as far as I could kick him uphill in the dark.

  “Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?” I asked.

  He turned to me and grinned. “I didn’t expect you to get out of that motel room alive,” he said. “When you walked through that door, you had Papa Bey’s Okay mark stamped on your forehead. What’s okay with Papa is okay with me. Get it?”

  I got it. I had thought that Hajjar worked for Lieutenant Okking and the police force, but Hajjar worked for Friedlander Bey, all the way.

  “Can you take me to Frenchy’s?” I said.

  “Frenchy’s? Your girlfriend works there, right?”

  “You keep up on things.”

  He turned and grinned at me again. “Six kiam apiece, the sunnies.”

  “Six?” I said. “That’s ridiculous. I can get them for two and a half.”

  “Are you crazy? There’s nowhere in the city you can get them less than four, and you can’t get them.”

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll give you three kiam each.”

  Hajjar rolled his eyes upward. “Don’t bother,” he said in a disgusted voice. “Allah will grant me a sufficient living without you.”

  “What is your lowest price? I mean your lowest.”

  “Offer whatever you think is fair.”

  “Three kiam,” I said again.

  “Because it’s between you and me,” said Hajjar seriously, “I’ll go as low as five and a half.”

  “Three and a half. If you won’t take my money, I can find somebody who will.”

  “Allah will sustain me. I hope your dealing goes well.”

  “What the hell, Hajjar? Okay, four.”

  “What, you think I’m making you a present of these?”

  “They’re no present at these prices. Four and a half. Does that satisfy you?”

  “All right, I’ll take my consolation from God. No gain to me, but give me the money and that ends it.” And that is the way Arabs in the city bargain, in a souk over a beaten-brass vase, or in the front seat of a cop car.

  I gave him a hundred kiam, and he gave me twenty-three sunnies. He reminded me three times on the way to Frenchy’s that he had thrown in one free, as a gift. When we got to the Budayeen, he didn’t slow down. He squealed through the gate and shot up the Street, predicting amiably that everyone would get out of his way; almost everyone did. When we got to Frenchy’s, I started to get out of the car. “Hey,” he said in a hurt tone of voice, “aren’t you going to buy me a drink?”

  Standing in the street, I slammed the door closed and leaned down to look in through the window. “I just can’t do that, as much as I would like to. If my friends saw me drinking with a cop, well, think what that would do to my reputation. Business is business, Hajjar.”

  He grinned. “And action is action. I know, I hear that all the time. See you around.” And he whipped the patrol car around again and bellowed off down the Street.

  I was already sitting down at Frenchy’s bar when I remembered all the blood on my clothes and my body. It was too late; Yasmin had already spotted me. I groaned. I needed something to set me up for the scene that was fast approaching. Fortunately, I had all these sunnies. . . .

  9

  I was wakened once again by the ringing of my telephone. It was simpler to find it this time; I no longer owned the jeans it had been clipped to the previous night, or the shirt I’d been wearing. Yasmin had decided that it would be much easier to dispose of them entirely than to try to wash the stains out. Besides, she said, she didn’t want to think about Sonny’s blood every time she ran her fingernails up my thigh. I had other shirts; the jeans were another matter. Finding a new pair was the first order of business for that Thursday.

  Or so I had planned. The phone call changed that. “Yeah?” I said.

  “Hello! Welcome! How are you?”

  “Praise Allah,” I said, “who is this?”

  “I ask your pardon, O clever one, I thought you would recognize my voice. This is Hassan.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them. “Hello, Hassan,” I said. “I heard about Abdoulaye last night from Friedlander Bey. The consolation is that you are well.”

  “May Allah bless you, my dear. Indeed, I am calling you to relay an invitation from Friedlander Bey. He desires that you come to hi
s house and take breakfast with him. He will send a car and driver.”

  This was not my favorite way to begin a day. “I thought I persuaded him last night that I was innocent.”

  Hassan laughed. “You have nothing to worry yourself about. This is purely a friendly invitation. Friedlander Bey would like to make amends for the anxiety he may have caused you. Also, there are one or two things he would like to ask of you. There may be a large amount of money in it for you, Marîd, my son.”

  I had no interest in taking Papa’s money, but I could not turn down his invitation; that was just not done in Papa’s city. “When will the car be here?” I asked.

  “Very soon. Refresh yourself, and then listen closely to whatever suggestions Friedlander Bey makes. You will profit from them if you are wise.”

  “Thank you, Hassan,” I said.

  “No thanks are needed,” he said, hanging up.

  I laid back on the pillow and thought. I had promised myself years ago that I would never take Papa’s money; even if it represented legitimate pay for a service rendered, accepting it put you in that broad category of his “friends and representatives.” I was an independent operator, but if I wanted to maintain that status, I’d have to walk carefully this afternoon.

  Yasmin was still asleep, of course, and I did not disturb her—Frenchy’s did not open until after sundown. I went to the bathroom and washed my face and brushed my teeth. I would have to go to Papa’s dressed in the local costume. I shrugged; Papa would probably interpret that as a compliment. That reminded me that I ought to take some small gift with me; this was an entirely different sort of interview than last night’s. I finished my brief toilet and dressed, leaving off the keffiya and wearing instead the knitted skullcap of my birthplace. I packed my shoulder bag with money, my telephone, and my keys, looked around the apartment with a vague feeling of foreboding, and went outside. I should have left a note telling Yasmin where I was going, but it occurred to me that if I never came home, the note wouldn’t do me any good.