A Fire in the Sun

by George Alec Effinger

  "All right," said the cop.

  "You got to watch out for Audran," Hajjar said. "He's got one of those addictives personalities. He used to make a big deal out of not havin' his brain wired. Now you never see him without some kind of moddy stuck in his head."

  That shocked me. I hadn't realized I'd been using my moddies so much. I was surprised anyone else had noticed.

  "Try to overlook his frailties, Jirji, 'cause you and him are gonna be workin' together."

  Shaknahyi gave him a sharp look. I did the same. "What do you mean, 'working together'?" said the cop.

  "I mean what I said. I got a little assignment for you two. You're gonna be workin' very closely for a while."

  "You taking me off the street?" asked Shaknahyi.

  Hajjar shook his head. "I never said that. I'm pairin' Audran with you on patrol."

  Shaknahyi was so outraged, I thought he was going to split down the middle. "Shaitan take my kids first!" he said. "You think you're teaming me up with a guy with no training and no experience, you're goddamn crazy!"

  I didn't like the idea of going out on the street. I didn't want to make myself a target for every loon in the Budayeen who owned a cheap needle gun. "I'm supposed to stay here in the station house," I said. "Friedlander Bey never said anything about real cop work."

  "Be good for you, Audran," said Hajjar. "You can ride around and see all your old buddies again. They'll be impressed when you flash your badge at them."

  "They'll hate my guts," I said.

  "You're both overlooking one small detail," said Shaknahyi. "As my partner, he's supposed to guard my back every time we walk into some dangerous situation. To be honest, I don't have a lick of faith in him. You can't expect me to work with a partner I don't trust."

  "I don't blame you," said Hajjar. He looked amused by the cop's opinion of me. My first impression of Shaknahyi wasn't so good, either. He didn't have his brain wired, and that meant he was one of two kinds of cop: Either he was a strict Muslim, or else he was one of those guys who thought his own naked, unaugmented brain was more than a match for the evildoers. That's the way I used to be, but I learned better. Either way, I wouldn't get along with him.

  "And I don't want the responsibility of watching his back," I said. "I don't need that kind of pressure."

  Hajjar patted the air in a kind of soothing motion. "Well, forget about that. You're not gonna be chasin' down bad guys on the street. You're gonna be conductin' an unofficial investigation."

  "What kind of investigation?" asked Shaknahyi suspiciously.

  Hajjar waved a dark green cobalt-alloy plate. "Got a big file here on Reda Abu Adil. I want you two to learn it backwards and forwards. Then you're gonna meet the man and stick to him like shadows."

  "His name's come up a couple of times at Papa's house," I said. "Who is he?"

  "He's Friedlander Bey's oldest rival." Hajjar leaned against the pale green wall. "They got a competition goes back a hundred years."

  "I know about him," said the cop gruffly.

  "Audran only knows about small-time thugs in the Budayeen. Abu Adil don't come near the Budayeen. Keeps his interests far away from Papa's. Carved out a little kingdom for himself on the north and west sides of town. Even so, I got a request from Friedlander Bey to put him under surveillance."

  "You're doing this just because Friedlander Bey asked you to?" asked Shaknahyi.

  "You bet your ass. He's got a suspicion that Abu Adil is thinkin' about breakin' their truce. Papa wants to be ready."

  Well, until I found my leverage with Friedlander Bey, I was his puppet. I had to do whatever he and Hajjar told me to do.

  Shaknahyi, however, didn't want any part of it. "I wanted to be a cop because I thought I could help people," he said. "I don't make a lot of money, I don't get enough sleep, and every day I mix into one goddamn crisis after another. I never know when somebody's gonna pull a gun on me and use it. I do it because I believe I can make a difference. I didn't sign on to be some rich bastard's personal spy. How long has this outfit been for sale, anyway?" He glowered at Hajjar until the lieutenant had to look away.

  "Listen," I said to Shaknahyi, "what's your problem with me?"

  "You're not a cop, for one thing," he said. "You're worse than a rookie. You'll hang back and let some creep nail me, or else you'll get itchy and shoot a little old lady. I don't want to be teamed with somebody unless I think I can count on him."

  I nodded. "Yeah, you right, but I can wear a moddy. I've seen plenty of rookies wearing police officer moddies to help them through the routines."

  Shaknahyi threw up his hands. "He just makes it worse," he muttered.

  "I said not to worry about a rough time on the street," said Hajjar. "This is just an investigation. Mostly desk-job stuff. I don't know what's got you so spooked, Jirji."

  Shaknahyi rubbed his forehead and sighed. "All right, all right. I just wanted to have my objection on the record."

  "Okay," said Hajjar, "it's been noted. I want to hear regular reports from both of you, 'cause I got to keep Friedlander Bey happy. That's not as easy as it sounds, either." He tossed the cell-memory plate to me.

  "Want us to start on this right away?" I asked.

  Hajjar gave me a wry look. "If you can fit it into your busy social calendar."

  "Make a copy for me," said Shaknahyi. "I'll study the file today, and tomorrow we'll take a ride by Abu Adil's place."

  "Fine," I said. I slipped the green plate into my data deck and copied it onto a blank.

  "Right," said Shaknahyi, taking the copy and walking out of my cubicle.

  "You two didn't hit it off real well," said Hajjar.

  "We just have to get the job done," I said. "We don't have to go dancing together."

  "Yeah, you right. Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off? Go home and look through the report. I'm sure you got any questions, Papa can answer them for you."

  He left me alone too, and I called Friedlander Bey's house through the data deck. I spoke to one of the Stones That Speak. "Yeah?" he said bluntly.

  "This is Audran. Tell Kmuzu to pick me up at the police station in about twenty minutes."

  "Yeah," said the Stone. Then I was listening to a dial tone. The Stones make up in curtness what they lack in eloquence.

  Twenty minutes later on the dot, Kmuzu swung the electric sedan in toward the curb. I got into the backseat, and he began driving home.

  "Kmuzu," I said, "you know anything about a businessman named Reda Abu Adil?"

  "A little, yaa Sidi," he said. "What do you wish to know?" He never looked away from the road.

  "Everything, but not right now." I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the seat. If only Friedlander Bey would tell me as much as he told Kmuzu and Lieutenant Hajjar. I hated to think that Papa still didn't entirely trust me.

  "When we get back to the estate," said Kmuzu, "you'll want to talk with Friedlander Bey." "That's right," I said.

  "I warn you that the woman has put him in a surly mood."

  Wonderful, I thought. I'd forgotten about the woman. Papa was going to want to know why I hadn't murdered her yet. I spent the rest of that ride thinking up a plausible excuse.

  4

  IF I'D KNOWN just how difficult things were going to be, I might have had Kmuzu drive me straight out of the city and on to some distant, peaceful place. When I got home —by this time I was used to thinking of Friedlander Bey's palace as home—it was about four o'clock in the afternoon. I decided that I could use a nap. After that, I planned to have a brief meeting with Papa and then go out and spend some time in Chiriga's club. Unfortunately, my slave Kmuzu had other ideas.

  "I will be quite comfortable in the small room," he announced.

  "I'm sorry?" I said. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

  "The small room that you use for storage. It will be sufficient for my needs. I will bring a cot."

  I looked at him for a moment. "I assumed you'd be sleeping in the
servant's wing."

  "Yes, I have quarters there, yaa Sidi, but I will be better able to look after you if I have a room here also."

  "I'm not really interested in having you look after me every minute of the day, Kmuzu. I put a certain value on my privacy."

  Kmuzu nodded. "I understand that, but the master of the house directed me—"

  I'd heard enough of that. "I don't care what the master of the house directed you," I shouted. "Whose slave are you, mine or his?"

  Kmuzu didn't answer me. He just stared at me with his big, solemn eyes.

  "Yeah, well, never mind," I said. "Go ahead and make yourself at home in the storage room. Stack up all my stuff and drag in a mattress if you want." I turned away, deeply irritated.

  "Friedlander Bey has invited you to dine with him after he speaks to you," said Kmuzu.

  "I suppose it doesn't mean anything that I have other plans," I said. All I got was the same silent stare. Kmuzu was awful good at that.

  I went into my bedroom and undressed. Then I took a quick shower and thought about what I wanted to say to Friedlander Bey. First, I was going to tell him that this slave-spy thing with Kmuzu was going to have to end pretty goddamn quick. Second, I wanted to let him know that I wasn't happy about being teamed with Officer Shaknahyi. And third, well, that's when I realized that I probably didn't have the nerve to mention anything at all about items one and two.

  I got out of the shower and toweled myself dry. Standing under the warm water had made me feel a lot better and I decided that I didn't need a nap after all. Instead, I stared into a closet deciding what to wear. Papa liked it when I wore Arab dress. I figured what the hell and picked a simple maroon gallebeya. I decided that the knitted skullcap of my homeland wasn't appropriate, and I'm not the turban type. I settled on a plain white keffiya and fixed it in place with a simple black rope akal. I tied a corded belt around my waist, supporting a ceremonial dagger Papa'd given me. Also on the belt, pulled around behind my back, was a holster with my seizure gun. I hid that by wearing an expensive tan-colored cloak over the gallebeya. I felt I was ready for anything: a feast, a debate, or an attempted assassination.

  "Why don't you stay here and get yourself settled in?" I said to Kmuzu, but instead he followed me downstairs. I just knew he'd do that. Papa's offices were on the ground floor in the main part of the house connecting the two wings. When we got there, one of the Stones That Speak was in the corridor, guarding the door. He glanced at me and nodded; but when he looked at Kmuzu, his expression changed. His lip curled just a little. That was the most emotion I'd ever seen from one of the Stones.

  "Wait," he said.

  "I will go in with my master," said Kmuzu.

  The Stone struck him in the chest and shoved him back a step. "Wait," he said.

  "It's all right, Kmuzu," I said. I didn't want the two of them wrestling on the floor here outside Friedlander Bey's office. They could settle their little dominance dispute on their own time.

  Kmuzu gave me a cool glance, but said nothing. The Stone bowed his head slightly as I went past him into Papa's waiting room, and then he closed the door behind me. If he and Kmuzu went at it out in the hall, I'd be at a loss to know what to do. What's the proper etiquette when your slave is getting beaten up by your boss's slave? Of course, that wasn't giving Kmuzu the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had a trick or two of his own. Who knows, he might have been able to handle the Stone That Speaks.

  Anyway, Friedlander Bey was in his inner office. He was sitting behind his gigantic desk. He didn't look well. His elbows were on the desktop, and his head was in his hands. He was massaging his forehead. He stood up when I came in. "I am pleased," he said. He didn't sound pleased. He sounded exhausted.

  "It's my honor to wish you good evening, O Shaykh," I said. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of baggy gray trousers. He probably wouldn't even notice the trouble I'd taken to dress conservatively. You can't win, right?

  "We will dine soon, my son. In the meantime, sit with me. There are matters that need our attention."

  I sat in a comfortable chair beside his desk. Papa took his seat again and fiddled with some papers, frowning. I wondered if he was going to talk about the woman, or why he'd decided to saddle me with Kmuzu. It wasn't my place to question him. He'd begin when he was ready.

  He shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them, sighing. His sparse white hair was rumpled, and he hadn't shaved that morning. I guessed he had a lot on his mind. I was a little afraid of what he was going to order me to do this time.

  "We must speak," he said. "There is the matter of alms-giving."

  Okay, I'll admit it: Of all the possible problems he could have chosen, alms-giving was pretty low on my list of what I expected to hear. How foolish of me to think he wanted to discuss something more to the point. Like murder.

  "I'm afraid I've had more important things on my mind, O Shaykh," I said.

  Friedlander Bey nodded wearily. "No doubt, my son, you truly believe these other things are more important, but you are wrong. You and I share an existence of luxury and comfort, and that gives us a responsibility to our brothers."

  Jacques, my infidel friend, would've had trouble grasping his precise point. Sure, other religions are all in favor of charity too. It's just good sense to take care of the poor and needy, because you never know when you're going to end up poor and needy yourself. The Muslim attitude goes further, though. Alms-giving is one of the five pillars of the religion, as fundamental an obligation as the profession of faith, the daily prayer, the fast of Ramadan, and the pilgrimage to Mecca.

  I gave the same attention to alms-giving that I gave the other duties. That is, I had profound respect for them in an intellectual sort of way, and I told myself that I'd begin practicing in earnest real soon now.

  "Evidently you've been considering this for some time," I said.

  "We have been neglecting our duty to the poor and the wayfarers, and the widows and orphans among our neighbors."

  Some of my friends—my old friends, my former friends—think Papa is nothing but a murderous monster, but that's not true. He's a shrewd businessman who also maintains strong ties to the faith that created our culture. I'm sorry if that seems like a contradiction. He could be harsh, even cruel, at times; but I knew no one else as sincere in his beliefs or as glad to meet the many obligations of the noble Qur'ân.

  "What do you wish me to do, O my uncle?"

  Friedlander Bey shrugged. "Do I not reward you well for your services?"

  "You are unfailingly gracious, O Shaykh," I said.

  "Then it would not be a hardship for you to set aside a fifth part of your substance, as is suggested in the Straight Path. Indeed, I desire to make a gift to you that will swell your purse and, at the same time, give you a source of income independent of this house."

  That caught my attention. Freedom was what I hungered for every night as I drifted off to sleep. It was what I thought of first when I woke in the morning. And the first step toward freedom was financial independence.

  "You are the father of generosity, O Shaykh," I said, "but I am unworthy." Believe me, I was panting to hear what he was going to say. Proper form, however, required me to pretend that I couldn't possibly accept his gift.

  He raised one thin, trembling hand. "I prefer that my associates have outside sources of income, sources that they manage themselves and whose profits they need not share with me."

  "That is a wise policy," I said. I've known a lot of Papa's "associates," and I know what kind of sources they had. I was sure he was about to cut me into some shady vice deal. Not that I had scruples, you understand. I wouldn't mind getting my drugs wholesale. I've just never had much of a mind for commerce.

  "Until recently the Budayeen was your whole world. You know it well, my son, and you understand its people. I have a great deal of influence there, and I thought it best to acquire for you some small commercial concern in that quarter." He extende
d to me a document laminated in plastic.

  I reached forward and took it from him. "What is this, O Shaykh?" I asked.

  "It is a title deed. You are now the owner of the property described upon it. From this day forward it is your business to operate. It is a profitable enterprise, my nephew. Manage it well and it will reward you, inshallah."

  I looked at the deed. "You're—" My voice choked. Papa had bought Chiriga's club and was giving it to me. I looked up at him. "But—"

  He waved his hand at me. "No thanks are necessary," he said. "You are my dutiful son."

  "But this is Chiri's place. I can't take her club. What will she do?"

  Friedlander Bey shrugged. "Business is business," he said simply.

  I just stared at him. He had a remarkable habit of giving me things I would have been happier without: Kmuzu and a career as a cop, for instance. It wouldn't do any good at all to refuse. "I'm quite unable to express my thanks," I said in a dull voice. I had only two good friends left, Saied the Half-Hajj and Chiri. She was really going to hate this. I was already dreading her reaction.

  "Come," said Friedlander Bey, "let us go in to dinner." He stood up behind his desk and held out his hand to me. I followed him, still astonished. It wasn't until later that I realized I hadn't spoke to him about my job with Hajjar or my new assignment to investigate Reda Abu Adil. When you're in Papa's presence, you go where he wants to go, you do what he wants to do, and you talk about what he wants to talk about.

  We went to the smaller of the two dining rooms, in the back of the west wing on the ground floor. This is where Papa and I usually ate when we dined together. Kmuzu fell into step behind me in the corridor, and the Stone That Speaks followed Friedlander Bey. If this were a sentimental American holoshow, eventually they'd get into a fight and afterward they'd become the best of friends. Fat chance.

  I stopped at the threshold of the dining room and stared. Umm Saad and her son were waiting for us inside. She was the first woman I'd ever seen in Friedlander Bey's house, but even so she'd never been permitted to join us at the table. The boy looked about fifteen years old, which in the eyes of the faith is the age of maturity. He was old enough to meet the obligations of prayer and ritual fasting, so under other circumstances he might have been welcome to share our meal. "Kmuzu," I said, "escort the woman back to her apartment."