When Gravity Fails

by George Alec Effinger

  Hajjar? Come now, what ever gave you that idea? Allah forfend.

  I shook my head ruefully. Police departments all over the world were identical in two respects: they all have a fondness for breaking your head open for little or no provocation, and they can’t see the simple truth if it’s lying in front of them naked with its legs spread. The police don’t enforce laws; they don’t even get busy until after the laws are broken. They solve crimes at a pitifully low rate of success. What the police are, to be honest, is a kind of secretarial pool that records the names of the victims and the statements of the witnesses. After enough time passes, they can safely shove this information to the back of the filing system to make room for more.

  Oh yeah, the police help little old ladies across the street. So I’m told.

  One by one, I entered the names of everyone who’d been connected to Nikki, beginning with her uncle, Bogatyrev. The entries on the old Russian and on Nikki matched exactly what Okking had finally told me about them. I figured that if Okking could excise himself from this system, he could alter its remaining records in other ways, too. I wouldn’t find anything useful here except by accident or Okking’s oversight. I went on with a diminished hope of success.

  I had none. At last I changed my mind and read the entries on Yasmin, Papa, and Chiri, on the Black Widow Sisters, on Seipolt and Abdoulaye. The files told me that Hassan was likely a hypocrite, because he would not use brain implants for his business, on religious grounds, yet he was a known pederast. That wasn’t news to me. The only thing that I might suggest to Hassan someday was that the American boy, who already had his skull wired, might be more useful as an accounting tool than just sitting on a stool in Hassan’s bare shop.

  The only person I knew on whom I didn’t peep was myself. I didn’t want to know what they thought about me.

  After I searched the files for my friends’ histories, I looked at telephone company records for the phones in the police station. There was nothing enlightening there, either; Okking wouldn’t have used his office phone to call Bond. It was like I was standing at the hub of a lot of radiating roads, all of them dead ends.

  I walked out of there with food for thought but no new facts. I like knowing what the files had to say about Hajjar and the others; and the reticence it showed toward Okking—and, not so mysteriously, toward Friedlander Bey—was provocative if not informative. I thought about it all as I wandered into the Budayeen. In a few minutes I was back at my apartment building.

  Why had I come here? Well, I didn’t want to sleep in the hotel room another night. At least one assassin knew I was there. I needed another base of operations, one that would be safe for at least a day or two. As I got more accustomed to letting the daddies help me in my planning, my decision making got faster and less influenced by my emotions. I now felt completely in control, cool and assured. I wanted to get a message to Papa, and then I would find another temporary place to sleep.

  My apartment was just the way I’d left it. Truthfully, I hadn’t been away long, although it felt like weeks; my time sense was all distorted. Tossing the zipper bag onto the mattress, I sat down and murmured Hassan’s commcode into my phone. It rang three times before he answered. “Marhaba,” he said. He sounded tired.

  “Hello, Hassan, this is Audran. I need to have a meeting with Friedlander Bey, and I was hoping you could fix it for me.”

  “He will be glad that you are showing interest in doing things the proper way, my nephew. Certainly, he will want to see you and learn from you what progress you are making. Do you wish an appointment for this afternoon?”

  “As soon as you can, Hassan.”

  “I will take care of it, O clever one, and I will call you back to tell you of the arrangements.”

  “Thanks. Before you go, I want to ask you a question. Do you know if there’s any connection between Papa and Lutz Seipolt?”

  There was a long silence while Hassan framed his reply. “Not any longer, my nephew. Seipolt is dead, is he not?”

  “I know that,” I said impatiently.

  “Seipolt was involved only in the import-export trade. He dealt only in cheap trinkets, nothing that would be of interest to Papa.”

  “Then so far as you know, Papa never tried to cut himself a piece of Seipolt’s business?”

  “My nephew, Seipolt’s business was barely worth mentioning. He was just a small businessman, like myself.”

  “But, also like yourself, he felt he needed a secondary income to make ends meet. You work for Friedlander Bey, and Seipolt worked for the Germans.”

  “By the life of my eyes! Is that so? Seipolt, a spy?”

  “I’d be willing to bet you already knew that. Never mind. Did you ever have any dealings with him?”

  “What do you mean?” Hassan’s voice became harsh.

  “Business. Import-export. You have that in common.”

  “Oh, well, I bought items from him now and then, if he offered some particularly interesting European goods; but I don’t think he ever bought anything from me.”

  That didn’t get me anywhere. At Hassan’s request, I gave him a quick rundown of the events since my discovery of Seipolt’s body. By the time I finished, he was thoroughly frightened again. I told him about Okking and the doctored police records. “That’s why I need to see Friedlander Bey,” I said.

  “You suspect something?” asked Hassan.

  “It isn’t only the missing information in the files, and the fact that Okking’s a foreign agent. I just can’t believe that he has the full resources of the department looking into these murders, and yet he hasn’t come forward with a single useful piece of information for me. I’m sure he knows much more than he’s telling me. Papa promised that he’d pressure Okking into sharing what he knows. I need to hear all that.”

  “Of course, my nephew, don’t worry about that. It shall be done, inshallah. Then you have no true idea of how much the lieutenant actually knows?”

  “That is the way of the flic. He might have the whole case wrapped up, or he may know even less than I do. He’s a master at giving you the runaround.”

  “He cannot give Friedlander Bey the runaround.”

  “He’ll try.”

  “He won’t succeed. Do you need more money, O clever one?”

  Hell, I could always use more money. “No, Hassan, I’m doing fine for now. Papa has been more than generous.”

  “If you need cash to further your investigation, you have only to contact me. You are doing an excellent job, my son.”

  “At least I’m not dead yet.”

  “You have the wit of a poet, my darling. I must go now. Business is business, you know.”

  “Right, Hassan. Call me back after you’ve spoken with Papa.”

  “Praise be to Allah for your safety.”

  “Allah yisallimak,” I said. I stood up and tucked the phone away again; then I began looking for the one other object that I’d found in Nikki’s purse: the scarab she had taken from Seipolt’s collection. That brass reproduction tied Nikki directly to Seipolt, as did her ring that I’d seen in the German’s house. Of course, with Seipolt now among the dear departed, these items were of questionable value. True, Dr. Yeniknani still had the homemade moddy; that might be an important piece of evidence. I thought it was time to begin preparing a presentation of all I’d learned, so that I could eventually turn it all in to the authorities. Not Okking, of course, and not Hajjar. I wasn’t sure who the proper authorities were, but I knew there had to be some somewhere. The three items were not enough to convict anyone in a European court of law, but according to Islamic justice, they were plenty.

  I found the scarab under the edge of the mattress. I unzipped my bag and stuffed Seipolt’s tourist’s souvenir down under my clothing. I packed carefully, wanting to be sure that everything I owned was out of the apartment. Then I kicked a lot of scraps and rubbish into low piles here and there. I didn’t feel like spending a lot of time cleaning. When I finished, there was nothing in t
he room that showed that I’d ever lived there. I felt a stinging sadness: I’d lived in that apartment longer than in any other single place in my life. If anywhere could truly be called my home, this little apartment should be it. Now, though, it was a big, abandoned room with dirty windows and a torn mattress on the floor. I went out, shutting the door behind me.

  I returned my keys to Qasim, the landlord. He was surprised and upset that I was going. “I’ve liked living in your building,” I told him, “but it pleases Allah that now I must move on.”

  He embraced me and called on Allah to lead each of us in righteousness unto Paradise.

  I went to the bank and used the card to withdraw my entire account, closing it. I stuffed the bills into the envelope Friedlander Bey had sent me. When I got myself another place to stay, I’d take it out and see how much I had altogether; I was kind of teasing myself by not peeking now.

  My third stop was the Hotel Palazzo di Marco Aurelio. I was dressed now in my gallebeya and keffiya, but with my short haircut and clean-shaven face. I don’t think the desk clerk recognized me.

  “I paid for a week in advance,” I said, “but business matters force me to check out earlier than I planned.”

  The desk man murmured. “We’re sorry to hear that, sir. We’ve enjoyed having you.” I nodded and tossed my room’s tag onto the counter. “Just let me look at . . .” He keyed the room number into his terminal, saw that the hotel did indeed owe me a little money, and began getting the voucher printed out.

  “You’ve all been very kind,” I said.

  He smiled. “It is our pleasure,” he said. He handed me the voucher and pointed to the cashier. I thanked him again. A few moments later I crammed the partial refund in my zipper bag with the rest of my money.

  Carrying my cash, my moddies and daddies, and my clothing in the zipper bag, I walked south and west, away from the Budayeen and away from the expensive shopping district beside the Boulevard il-Jameel. I came to a fellahîn neighborhood of twisting streets and alleys, where the houses were small, flat-topped, needing whitewash, with windows covered by shutters or thin wooden lattices. Some were in better repair, with attempts at gardening in the dry earth at the base of the walls. Others looked derelict, their gap-toothed shutters hanging in the sun like tongues of panting dogs. I went up to a well-kept house and rapped on the door. I waited a few minutes until it opened. A large, heavily muscled man with a full black beard glared down at me. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and in the corner of his mouth his teeth were chewing away at a splinter of wood. He waited for me to speak.

  With no confidence at all, I launched into my story. “I have been stranded in this city by my companions. They stole all our merchandise and my money, too. I must beg in the name of Allah and the Apostle of God, may the blessings of Allah be upon him and peace, your hospitality for today and for this evening.”

  “I see,” said the man in a surly voice. “The house is closed.”

  “I will give you no cause for offense. I will—”

  “Why don’t you try begging where the hospitality is more generous? People tell me there are families here and about with enough to eat for themselves and also for dogs and strangers, as well. Me, I’m lucky to earn a little money for beans and bread for my wife and my four children.”

  I understood. “I know you don’t need trouble. When I was robbed, my companions didn’t know that I always keep a little extra cash in my bag. They greedily took everything in plain sight, leaving me with enough to live on for one or two days, until I can make my way back and demand a lawful accounting of them.”

  The man just stared at me, waiting for something magical to appear.

  I unslung my zipper bag and opened it. I let him watch me shove the clothing aside—my shirts, my trousers, socks—until I reached down and pulled out a paper bank note. “Twenty kiam,” I said sadly, “that’s all they left me with.”

  My new friend’s face went through a rapid selection of emotions. In this neighborhood, twenty-kiam notes made their presence felt with noise and shouting. The man may not have been sure of me, but I knew what he was thinking.

  “If you would give me the benefit of your hospitality and protection for the next two days,” I said, “I will let you have all the money you see here.” I thrust the twenty closer to his widening eyes.

  The man wavered visibly; if he’d had big, flat leaves, he would have rustled. He didn’t like strangers—hell, no one likes strangers. He didn’t like the idea of inviting one into his house for a couple of days. Twenty kiam, though, was equal to several days’ pay for him. When I looked closely at him again, I knew that he wasn’t sizing me up anymore—he was spending the twenty kiam a hundred different ways. All I had to do was wait.

  “We are not wealthy people, O sir.”

  “Then the twenty kiam will ease your life.”

  “It would, indeed, O sir, and I desire to have it; however, I am shamed to permit such an excellent one as you to witness the squalor of my house.”

  “I have seen squalor greater than any you can imagine, my friend, and I have risen above it even as you may. I was not always as I appear to you. It was only the will of Allah that I be flung down to the deepest pits of misery, in order that I might return to take back what has been torn from me. Will you help me? Allah will bring good fortune to all who are generous to me on my way.”

  The fellah looked at me in confusion for a long while. At first, I knew he thought I was just crazy, and the best thing was to run as far away from me as possible. My babbling sounded like some kidnapped prince’s speech from the old tales. The stories were fine for late at night, for murmuring around the fire after a simple supper and before sleep and troubled dreams. In the light of day, however, a confrontation like this had nothing to make it seem plausible. Nothing except the money, waving like the frond of a date palm in my hand. My friend’s eyes were fixed on the twenty kiam, and I doubt that he could have described my face to anyone.

  In the end, I was admitted into the house of my host, Ishak Jarir. He maintained a strict discipline, and I saw no women. There was a second floor above, where the family members slept, and where there were a few small closets for storage. Jarir opened a plain wooden door to one of these and roughly shoved me inside. “You will be safe here,” he said in a whisper. “If your treacherous friends come and inquire about you, no one in this house has seen you. But you may stay only until after morning prayers tomorrow.”

  “I thank Allah that in His wisdom He has guided me to so generous a man as you. I have yet an errand to run, and if everything occurs as I foresee, I will return with a bank note the twin of that you hold in your hand. The twin shall be yours, as well.”

  Jarir didn’t want to hear any of the details. “May your undertaking be prosperous,” he said. “Be warned, though: if you come back after last prayers, you will not be admitted.”

  “It is as you say, honorable one.” I looked over my shoulder at the pile of rags that would be my home that night, smiled innocently at Ishak Jarir, and got out of his house suppressing a shudder.

  I turned down the narrow, stone-paved street that I thought would take me back to the Boulevard il-Jameel. As the street began a slow curve to the left, I knew that I’d made a mistake, but it was going in the right direction anyway, so I followed it. When I got around the turn, however, there was nothing but the blank brick rear walls of buildings hedging in a reeking, dead-end alley. I muttered a curse and turned around to retrace my steps.

  There was a man blocking my way. He was thin, with a patchy, slovenly kept beard and a sheepish smile on his face. He was wearing an open-necked yellow knit shirt, a rumpled and creased brown business suit, a white keffiya with red checks, and scuffed brown oxford shoes. His foolish expression reminded me of Fuad, the idiot from the Budayeen. Evidently he had followed me up the dead-end street; I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.

  I don’t like people catfooting up behind me; I unzipped my bag while I stared at him. He
just stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and grinning. I took out a couple of daddies and zipped the bag closed again. I started to walk by him, but he stopped me with a hand on my chest. I looked down at the hand and back up at his face. “I don’t like being touched,” I said.

  He shrank back as if he had defiled the holy of holies. “A thousand pardons,” he said weakly.

  “You following me for some reason?”

  “I thought you might be interested in what I have here.” He indicated an imitation-leather briefcase he carried in one hand.

  “You a salesman?”

  “I sell moddies, sir, and a wide selection of the most useful and interesting add-ons in the business. I’d like to show them to you.”

  “No, thanks.”

  He raised his eyebrows, not so sheepish now, as if I’d asked him to go right ahead. “It won’t take a moment, and very possibly I have just the thing you’re looking for.”

  “I’m not looking for anything in particular.”

  “Sure you are, sir, or you wouldn’t have gotten wired, now, would you?”

  I shrugged. He knelt down and opened his sample case. I was determined that he wasn’t going to sell me anything. I don’t do business with weasels.

  He was taking moddies and daddies out of the case and lining them up in a neat row in front of his briefcase. When he was finished he looked up at me. I could tell how proud he was of his merchandise. “Well,” he said. There was an anticipatory hush.

  “Well what?” I asked.

  “What do you think of them?”

  “The moddies? They look like every other moddy I’ve ever seen. What are they?”

  He grabbed the first moddy in the line. He flipped it to me and I caught it; a quick glimpse told me it was unlabeled, made of tougher plastic than the usual moddies I saw at Laila’s and in the souks. Bootleg. “You know that one already,” the man said, giving me that sorry smile again.