Kmuzu shook his head. “Abu Adil never discussed anything with me, yaa Sidi. I was only a bodyguard. But bodyguards are often overlooked or forgotten. They become like the furniture in a room. Several times I overheard Shaykh Reda and Umar talk about whom they wished to add to the Phoenix File.”
“So what is the damn thing?” I demanded.
“A list,” said Kmuzu. “A compilation of the names of everyone who works for Shaykh Reda or Friedlander Bey, either directly or indirectly. And of anyone who owes either of them a great favor.”
“Like rosters,” I said, puzzled. “But why should the file be so important? I’m sure the police could put together the same list anytime they wanted. Why did Jirji Shaknahyi risk his life investigating it?”
“Each person on the list has a coded entry that describes his physical condition, his tissue-matching profile, and his record of organ transplants and other modifications.”
“So both Abu Adil and Papa keep up with their people’s health. That’s great. I didn’t think they’d bother with details like that.”
Kmuzu frowned. “You don’t understand, yaa Sidi. The file is not a list of who might need to receive a transplant. It is a list of available donors.”
“Available donors? But these people aren’t dead, they’re still—” My eyes opened wider and I just stared at him.
Kmuzu’s expression let me know that my horrified realization was correct. “Everyone on the list is ranked,” he said, “from the lowest underling to Umar and yourself. If a person on the list is injured or becomes ill and needs an organ transplant, Abu Adil or Friedlander Bey may choose to sacrifice someone with a lower rating. This is not always done, but the higher one’s rating, the more likely it is that a suitable donor will be chosen.”
“May their houses be destroyed! The sons of thieves!” I said softly. This explained the notations in Shaknahyi’s notebook — the names on the left side were people who’d been prematurely relaxed to provide spare parts for people on the right side. Blanca had been too far down on the list for her own good; she’d been just another expendable slut.
“Perhaps everyone you know is listed in the Phoenix File,” said Kmuzu. “You yourself, your friends, your mother. My name is there as well.”
I felt fury growing in me. “Where does he keep it, Kmuzu? I’m gonna shove this file down Abu Adil’s throat.”
Kmuzu raised a hand. “Remember, yaa Sidi, that Shaykh Reda is not alone in this terrible enterprise. He cooperates with our master. They share information, and they share the lives of their associates. A heart from one.of Shaykh Reda’s minions may be put in the chest of Friedlander Bey’s lieutenant. The two men are great competitors, but in this they are cordial partners.”
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
“For many years. The two shaykhs began it to make certain they themselves would never die for lack of compatible organs.”
I slammed my fist on the desk. “That’s how they’ve both lived to such doddering old age. They’re fucking fossils!”
“And they are insane, yaa Sidi,” said Kmuzu.
“You didn’t tell me where to find it. Where is the Phoenix File?”
Kmuzu shook his head. “I don’t know. Shaykh Reda keeps it hidden.”
Well, I thought, I’d planned to take a ride out to that neighborhood that afternoon anyway. “Thanks, Kmuzu. You’ve been a lot of help.”
“Yaa Sidi, you aren’t going to confront Shaykh Reda with this, are you?” He looked very troubled.
“No, of course not,” I said. “I know better than to take on both of the old men together. You just keep working on our soup kitchen. I think it’s time the House of Friedlander Bey began giving back something to the poor people.”
“That is good.”
I left Kmuzu working at the data deck. I went back out to the car, revising my schedule for the day in light of the blockbuster that had just gone off at my feet. I drove to the Budayeen, parked the car, and started up the Street to Chiri’s.
My phone rang. “Marhaba,” I said.
“It’s me, man. Morgan.” I was glad I was still wearing the English daddy. “Jawarski’s here, all right. He’s holed up in a crummy apartment in a real slum. I’m hangin’ out in the stairwell, watchin’ the door. You want me to drop in on the man?”
“No,” I said, “just make sure he doesn’t leave. I want to know that he’ll be there when I come by later. If he tries to go somewhere, though, stop him. Use your gun and back him up into the apartment. Do whatever you got to, but keep him under wraps.”
“You got it, man. But don’t take too long. This isn’t as much fun as I thought it’d be.”
I clipped the phone back on my belt and went into the club. Chiri’s was pretty crowded for late afternoon. A new black girl named Mouna was on stage. I recalled suddenly that Mouna had been the name of the pet chicken in Fuad’s long story. That meant he was probably adoring this girl, and that meant she was probably trouble. I’d have to keep my eyes open.
The other girls were sitting with customers, and love was in bloom all along the bar. It was fucking heartwarming. I went down to my usual place arid waited for Indihar to come over. “White Death?” she asked.
“Not right now. You thought any about what we talked about?”
“About rne moving into Friedlander Bey’s little cottage? If it wasn’t for the kids, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. I don’t want to owe him nothing. I don’t want to be one of Papa’s little wenches.”
I’d felt that way myself, not so long ago. and now that I’d learned the significance of the Phoenix File, I knew she had even more reason to distrust Papa. “You’re right about that, Indihar,” I said, “but I promise you that won’t happen. Papa’s not doing this for you; I am.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes. A big one. Now, what’s your answer?”
She sighed. “Okay, Marid, but I’m not going to be one of your wenches, either. You know what I mean?”
“You’re not going to fuck me. You already made that clear.”
Indihar nodded. “Just so you understand. I’m mourning my husband. I may go on mourning him forever.”
“Take as long as you need. You got a lot of life left to live, honey,” I said. “Someday you’ll find someone else.”
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
It was past time to change the subject. “You can start moving in any time you want, but finish out the shift for me,” I said. “This means I got to find a new daytime barmaid.”
Indihar looked left and right, then leaned closer. “If I was you,” she said in a low voice, “I’d hire somebody from outside. I wouldn’t trust any of these girls to run this place. They’d rob you blind, especially that Brandi. And Pualani’s not bright enough to put the napkin down, then the drink.”
“What do you think I should do?”
She chewed her lip for a moment. “I’d hire Dalia away from Frenchy Benoit. That’s what I’d do. Or Heidi from the Silver Palm.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Call me if you need anything.” It was just something else I had to worry about. Right now, though, my thoughts were centered mainly on the blighted neighborhood on the western side of town. I walked back out into the late afternoon sun. It had begun to rain, and there was a good, wet smell coming from the warm sidewalks.
A few minutes later, I was back in the modshop on Fourth Street. Twice in one day was enough of Laila to last anybody a year. I overheard her discussing a module with a customer. The man needed something to let him do armadontia. That’s the science of converting human teeth into high-tech weapons. Laila was still Emma: Madame Bovary, Dentist of Tomorrow.
When the customer left — yes, Laila’d found just what he was looking for — I tried to tell her what I wanted without getting into a conversation. “Got any Proxy Hell moddies?” I asked.