“Sure.” He swung the door wider, and I pushed past him. “Marid, this is Mr. On.”
The baby seller was a small man with brown skin and brown teeth. He was sitting on a battered metal folding chair at a card table. There was a metal box at his elbow. He looked at me through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. No Nikon eyes for him, either.
I stepped across the filthy floor and held out my hand to him. On Cheung peered up at me and made no move to shake hands. After a few seconds, feeling like a fool, I dropped my hand.
“Okay?” asked Mahmoud. “Satisfied?”
“Tell him to open the box,” I said.
“I don’t tell Mr. On to do anything,” said Mahmoud. He’s a very—”
“Everything okay,” said On Cheung. “You look.” He flipped open the top of the metal box. There was a stack of bundred-kiam bills in there that could have bought every child in the Budayeen.
“Great,” I said. I reached into my pocket and brought out the pistol. “Hands on heads,” I said.
“You son of a bitch,” shouted Mahmoud. “What’s this, a robbery? You’re not gonna get away with it. Mr. On will make you sorry. That money’s not going to do you a damn bit of good. You’ll be dead before you spend a fiq of it.”
“I’m still a cop, Mahmoud,” I said sadly. I closed the metal box and handed it to him. I couldn’t carry it with my one good arm and still point the static pistol. “Hajjar’s been looking for On Cheung for a long time. Even a crooked cop like him has to bust somebody for real now and then. I guess it’s just your turn.”
I led them out to the car. I kept the gun on them while Kmuzu drove to the station house. All four of us went up to the third floor. Hajjar was startled as our little parade entered his glass-walled office. “Lieutenant,” I said, “this is On Cheung, the baby seller. Mahmoud, drop the box of money. It’s supposed to be evidence, but I don’t expect anybody’ll ever see it again after today.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” said Hajjar. He pushed a button on his desk, calling cops from the outer
’This one’s for free,” I said. Hajjar looked puzzled. “I told you I still had two to go. That’s Umm Saad and Abu Adil. These stiffs are kind of a bonus.”
“Right, thanks a lot. Mahmoud, you can go.” The lieutenant looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. “You really think Papa’d let me hold him?” he said. I thought about that for a moment and realized he was right.
Mahmoud looked relieved. “Won’t forget this, Maghrebi,” he muttered as he shoved by me. His threat didn’t worry me.
“By the way,” I said, “I quit. You want anybody to file traffic reports or enter logbook records from now on, you get somebody else. You need somebody to waste his time on wild-goose chases, get somebody else. You need help covering up your own crimes or incompetence, check with somebody else. I don’t work here anymore.”
Hajjar smiled cynically. “Yeah, some cops react that way when they face real pressure. But I thought you’d last longer, Audran.”
I slapped him twice, quickly and loudly. He just stared at me, his own hand coming up slowly to touch his stinging cheeks. I turned and walked out of the office, followed by Kmuzu. Cops were coming from all around, and they’d seen what I’d done to Hajjar. Everybody was grinning. Even me.
Kmuzu,” I said as he drove the sedan back to the house, “would you invite Umm Saad to have dinner iwith us?”
He looked across at me. He probably thought I was a complete fool, but he was great at keeping his opinions to himself. “Of course, yaa Sidi,” he said. “In the small dining room?”
“Uh huh.” I watched the streets of the Christian Quarter go by, wondering if I knew what I was doing.
“I hope you’re not underestimating the woman,” said Kmuzu.
“I don’t think so. I think I’ve got a healthy regard for what she’s capable of. I also think she’s basically sane. When I tell her I know about the Phoenix File, and about her reasons for insinuating herself in our house, she’ll realize the game is over.”
Kmuzu tapped the steering wheel with his index fingers. “If you need help, yaa Sidi, I’ll be there. You won’t have to face her alone, as you faced Shaykh Reda.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Kmuzu, but I don’t think Umm Saad is as loony or as powerful as Abu Adil. She and I will just be sitting down to a meal. I intend to stay in control, inshallah.”
Kmuzu gave me one more thoughtful glance, then turned his attention back to driving.
When we arrived at Friedlander Bey’s mansion, I went upstairs and changed my clothes. I put on a white robe and a white caftan, into which I transferred my static pistol. I also popped the pain-blocking daddy. I didn’t really need it all the time anymore, and I was carrying plenty of sunnies just in case. I felt a flood of annoying aches and pains, all of which had been blocked by the daddy. The worst of all was the throbbing discomfort in my shoulder. I decided there was no point in suffering bravely, and I went right for my pillcase.
While I waited for Umm Saad’s response to my invitation, I heard the sunset call to prayer from Papa’s muezzin. Since my talk with the elder of the mosque in Souk el-Khemis Street, I’d been worshiping more or less regularly. Maybe I didn’t manage to hit all five daily prayers, but I was doing decidedly better than ever before. Now I went downstairs to Papa’s office. He kept his prayer rug there, and he had a special mihrab built into one wall. The mihrab is the shallow semicircular alcove you find in every mosque, indicating the precise direction of Mecca. After I washed my face, hands, and feet, I unrolled the prayer mat, cleared my mind of uncertainty, and addressed myself to Allah.
When I’d finished praying, Kmuzu murmured, “Umm Saad waits for you in the small dining room.”
“Thank you.” I rolled up Papa’s prayer rug and put it away. I felt determined and strong. I used to believe that this was a temporary illusion caused by worship, but now I thought that doubt was the illusion. The assurance was real.
“It is good that you’ve regained your faith, yaa Sidi,” said Kmuzu. “Sometime you must let me tell you of the miracle of Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus is no stranger to Muslims,” I replied, “and his miracles are no secret to the faith.”
We went into the dining room, and I saw Umm Saad and her young son sitting in their places. The boy hadn’t been invited, but his presence wouldn’t stop me from what I planned to say. “Welcome,” I said, “and may Allah make this meal wholesome to you.”
“Thank you, O Shaykh,” said Umm Saad. “How is your health?”
“Fine, all praise be to Allah.” I sat down, and Kmuzu stood behind my chair. I noticed that Habib had come into the room as well — -or maybe it was Labib, whichever of the Stones wasn’t guarding Papa in the hospital. Umm Saad and I exchanged more pleasantries until a serving woman brought in a platter of tahini and salt fish.
“Your cook is excellent,” said Umm Saad. “I have relished each meal here.”
“I am pleased,” I said. More appetizers were brought out: cold stuffed grape leaves, stewed artichoke hearts, and eggplant slices stuffed with cream cheese. I indicated that my guests should serve themselves.
Umm Saad piled generous portions of each dish on her son’s plate. She looked back at me. “May I pour coffee for you, O Shaykh?” she asked.
“In a moment,” I said. “I’m sorry that Saad ben Salah is here to hear what I’ve got to say. It’s time to confront you with what I’ve learned, I know all about your work for Shaykh Reda, and how you’ve attempted to murder Friedlander Bey. I know that you ordered your son to set the fire, and I know about the poisoned stuffed dates.”
Umm Saad’s face went pale with horror. She had just taken a bite of a stuffed grape leaf, and she spat it out and dropped the remainder on her plate. “What have you done?” she said hoarsely.
I picked up another stuffed grape leaf and put it in my mouth. When I finished chewing, I said, “I’ve done nothing as terrible as you’re thinking.”