I also had to handle a major foreign crisis, when the new tyrant of Eritrea came to me demanding to know what was going on in his own country. I took care of that mess, thanks to Papa’s impeccable record keeping and Tariq and Youssef’s knowledge of where everything was.
My mother continued to alternate between modestly mature and brazenly foolish. Sometimes when we talked, we were sorry for the way we’d punished each other in the past. Other times, we wanted to slit each other’s throats. Kmuzu told me that this kind of relationship is not unusual between parent and child, particularly after both have reached a certain age. I accepted that, and I didn’t worry about it anymore.
Chiriga’s continued to make lots of money, and both Chiri and I were satisfied. I guess she would’ve been more satisfied if I’d sold the club back to her, but I enjoyed owning it too much. I decided to hang on to it a little while longer, the way I decided to hang on to Kmuzu.
When the muezzin’s call to prayer came, I answered it a large percentage of the time, and went to the mosque on a Friday or two. I was becoming known as a kind and generous man, not just in the Budayeen but all through the city. Wherever I went, people called me Shaykh Marid al-Amin. I didn’t completely stop taking drugs, however, because I was still injured and I saw no reason to take the chance of enduring unnecessary agony.
All in all, the month after I’d kissed off the police department was a welcome experiment with peace and quiet. It all came to an end one Tuesday, just before lunch, when I answered the phone. “Marhaba,” I said.
“Praise be to God. This is Umar Abdul-Qawy.”
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “The hell do you want?” I said.
“My master is concerned for the health of Fried-lander Bey. I’m calling to inquire as to his condition.”
I was coming to a quick boil. I didn’t really know what to say to Umar. “He’s fine. He’s resting.”
“Then he’s able to take care of his duties?” There was a smugness in his voice that I hated a lot.
“I said he’s fine, all right? Now, I got work to do.”
“Just a second, Monsieur Audran.” And then his voice got positively sanctimonious. “We believe you may have something that properly belongs to Shaykh Reda.”
I knew what he was talking about, and it made me smile. I liked being the screwer rather than the screwee. “I don’t know what you mean, Himmar.” I don’t know, something made me say it. I knew it would pluck his beard.
“The moddy,” he said. “The goddman moddy.”
I paused to savor what I heard in his voice. “Well, hell,” I said, “you got it all wrong. As I recall, you have the goddamn moddy. Remember? Himmar? You cuffed my hands behind my back, and then you beat me bloody, and then you jacked me into a moddy link and read off my brain. You guys done with it yet?”
There was silence. I think Umar hoped I wouldn’t remember that moddy. That’s not what he wanted to talk about. I didn’t care, I had the floor. “How’s it work, you son of a bitch?” I said. “You wear my brain while that sick bastard jams you? Or the other way around? How am I, Umar? Any competition for Honey Pilar?”
I heard him trying to get himself under control. “Perhaps we could arrange an exchange,” he said at last. “Shaykh Reda truly wishes to make amends. He wants his personality module returned. I’m sure he would agree to give you the recording we made of you plus a suitable cash settlement.”
“Cash,” I said. “How much?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure Shaykh Reda would be very generous. He realizes that he’s put you through a great deal of discomfort.”
“Yeah, you right. But business is business, and action is action. How much?”
“Ten thousand kiam,” said Umar.
I knew that if I balked, he’d name a higher figure; but I wasn’t interested in their money. “Ten thousand?” I said, trying to sound impressed.
“Yes.” Umar’s voice got smug again. He was going to pay for that. “Shall we meet here, in an hour? Shaykh Reda instructed me to say that our staff is preparing a special midday meal in your honor. We hope you’ll let our past differences go, Shaykh Marid. Shaykh Reda and Friedlander Bey must join together now. You and I must be partners in harmony. Don’t you agree?”
“I do testify that there is no god but Allah,” I declared solemnly.
“By the Lord of the Kaaba,” swore Umar, “this will be a memorable day for both our houses.”
I hung up the phone. “Damn straight about that,” I said. I sat back in my chair. I didn’t know who would have the upper hand when the afternoon was over, but the days of the false peace had come to an end.
I’m not a total fool, so I didn’t go to Abu Adil’s palace alone. I took one of the Stones That Speak with me, as well as Kmuzu and Saied. Now, the latter two had been exploited by Shaykh Reda, and they both felt they had scores to settle with him. When I asked if they’d like to join me in my devious charade, they eagerly agreed.
“I want a chance to make up for selling you out to Shaykh Reda,” said the Half-Hajj.
I was checking my two weapons, and I looked up. “But you’ve already done that. When you pulled me out of that alley.”
“Nan,” he said, “I still feel like I owe you at least one more.”
“You have an Arabic proverb,” said Kmuzu thoughtfully. “ ‘When he promised, he fulfilled his promise. When he threatened, he did not fulfill his threat, but he forgave.’ It is equivalent to the Christian idea of turning the other cheek.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But people who live their lives by proverbs waste their time doing lots of stupid things. ‘Getting even is the best revenge’ is my motto.”
“I wasn’t counseling retreat, yaa Sidi. I was only making a philological observation.”
Saied gave Kmuzu an irritated look. “And this big bald guy is something else you got to pay back Abu Adil for,” he said.
The ride out to Abu Adil’s palace in Hamidiyya was strangely pleasant. We laughed and talked as if we were on some enjoyable picnic or outing. I didn’t feel afraid, even though I wasn’t wearing a moddy or any daddies. Saied talked almost nonstop in the scatterbrained way that had given him his nickname. Kmuzu kept his eyes straight ahead as he drove, but even he put in a light-hearted comment now and then. Habib or Labib — whichever he was — sat beside Saied in the backseat and did his silent sandstone giant routine.
Abu Adil’s guard passed us immediately through the gate, and we drove up through the beautifully landscaped grounds. “Let’s wait a minute,” I said, as Kamal, the butler, opened the house’s massive, carved front door. I checked my static pistol again and passed the small seizure gun to the Half-Hajj; Kmuzu had the needle gun that had formerly belonged to Umm Saad. The Stone didn’t need any weapon beyond his own bare hands.
I clucked my tongue impatiently. “What is it, yaa Sidi?” asked Kmuzu.
“I’m deciding what to wear.” I browsed through myrack of moddies and daddies. I finally decided that I’d wear Rex and carry the Abu Adil moddy. I also chipped in the daddies that blocked pain and fear.
“When this is over,” Saied said wistfully, “can I have Rex back? I really miss wearing him.”
“Sure,” I said, even though I enjoyed wearing the badass moddy myself. Saied just wasn’t the same without it. For now, I let him have the anthology. I was hoping to see Mike Hammer put his fist in Abu Adil’s face.
“We must be careful,” said Kmuzu. “We cannot be lulled, because treachery runs in Shaykh Reda’s blood like the bilharzia worm.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not likely to forget it.”
Then the four of us got out of the car and walked up the ceramic-tiled path to the door. It was a warm, pleasant day, and the sun felt good on my face. I was dressed in a white gallebeya and my head was covered with a knitted Algerian skullcap. It was a simple costume, and it made me look humble.