The physical beating I took while I was reducing the former Hassan the Shiite to soup bones wasn’t bad enough to keep me in bed so long. Actually, those wounds could have been treated in the emergency room, and I could have been out dining and dancing a few hours later. The real problem was inside my head. I had seen and done too many terrible things, and Dr. Yeniknani and his colleagues considered the possibility that if they just disconnected the punishment daddy and the other override daddies, when all the facts and memories hit my poor, unbuffered brain, I’d end up as crazy as a spider on ice skates.
The American kid found me — found us, I mean, me and Hassan and Okking — and called the cops. They got me to the hospital, and apparently the highly paid, highly skilled specialists didn’t want any part of me. No one wanted to risk his reputation by taking charge. “Do we leave the add-ons in? Do we take them out? If we take them out, he might go permanently insane. If we leave them in, they might burn their way right down into his belly.” All those hours that black daddy was still juicing the punishment center in my brain. I passed out again and again, but I wasn’t dreaming about Honey Pílar, you can bet on that.
They popped the punishment chip first, but left the others in to leave me in a kind of insensible limbo. They brought me back to full, unaugmented consciousness slowly, testing me every step of the way. I’m proud to say that I’m as sane today as I ever was; I have all the daddies in their plastic box in case I get nostalgic.
I didn’t have any visitors in the hospital this time, either. I guessed that my friends had good memories. I took the opportunity to grow my beard back, and my hair was getting long again. It was a Tuesday morning when Dr. Yeniknani signed my releases. “I pray to Allah that I never see you here again,” he said.
I shrugged. “From now on, I’m going to get myself a quiet little business selling counterfeit coins to tourists. I don’t want any more trouble.”
Dr. Yeniknani smiled. “No one wants trouble, but there is trouble enough in the world. You cannot hide from it. Do you remember the shortest surah in the noble Qur’ân? It is actually one of the earliest revealed by the Prophet, may blessings be upon his name and peace. ‘Say: I seek refuge in the Lord of mankind, the King of mankind, the God of mankind, from the evil of the sly whisperer, who whispers in the hearts of mankind, of the djinn and of mankind.’ ”
“Djinn and mankind and guns and knives,” I said.
Dr. Yeniknani shook his head slowly. “If you look for guns, you will find guns. If you look for Allah, you will find Allah.”
“Well, then,” I said wearily, “I will just have to start my life fresh when I get out of here. I’ll just change all my ways and how I think and forget all the years of experience I’ve had.”
“You mock me,” he said sadly, “but some day you will listen to your own words. I pray to Allah that when that day comes, you will yet have time to do as you say.” Then he signed my papers, and I was free again, me again, with nowhere to go.
I didn’t have an apartment anymore. All I had was a zipper bag with a lot of money in it. I called a cab from the hospital and rode over to Papa’s. This was the second time I’d dropped by without an appointment, but this time I had the excuse that I couldn’t phone Hassan to make an arrangement. The butler recognized me, even favoring me with a minute change in his expression. Evidently I had become a celebrity. Politicians and sex stars may cuddle up to you and it doesn’t prove a thing, but when the butlers of the world notice you, you realize that some of what you believe about yourself is true.
I even got to give the waiting room a miss. One of the Stones That Speak appeared in front of me, did an about-face, and marched off. I followed. We went into Friedlander Bey’s office, and I took a few steps toward Papa’s desk. He stood up, his old face so shriveled up in smiles that I was afraid it would snap into a million pieces. He hurried toward me, took my face, and kissed me. “O my son!” he cried. Then he kissed me again. He couldn’t find the words to express his joy.
For my part, I was a little uncomfortable. I didn’t know whether I should play the brick-fronted hero or the aw-shucks kid who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The truth was, I only wanted to get out of there as fast as I could with another thick envelope of reward money, and never have anything to do with the old son of a bitch again. He was making it difficult. He kept kissing me.
At last it got thick, even for an old-fashioned Arab potentate like Friedlander Bey. He let me go and retreated behind the formidable bastion of his desk. It seemed that we weren’t going to share a pleasant lunch or tea and swap stories of mangled corpses while he told me how terrific I was. He just stared at me for a long time. One of the Stones crept up beside me, just behind my right shoulder. The other Stone planted himself behind my left shoulder. It felt eerily reminiscent of my first interview with Friedlander Bey, in the motel. Now, in these grander surroundings, I was somehow reduced from the conquering hero to some slimy miscreant who’d been caught with his hand in someone else’s pocket, and was now on the carpet. I don’t know how Papa did it, but it was part of his magic. Uh oh, I thought, and my stomach started to grumble. I still hadn’t learned what his motives had been.
“You have done well, O excellent one,” said Friedlander Bey. His tone was thoughtful and not wholly approving.
“I was granted good fortune by Allah in His greatness, and by you in your foresight,” I said.
Papa nodded. He was used to being yoked together with Allah that way. “Take, then, the token of our gratitude.” One of the Stones shoved an envelope against my ribs, and I took it.
“Thank you, O Shaykh.”
“Thank not me, but Allah in His beneficence.”
“Yeah, you right.” I pushed the envelope into a pocket. I wondered if I could go now.
“Many of my friends were slain,” mused Papa, “and many of my valued associates. It would be well to guard against such a thing ever happening again.”
“Yes, O Shaykh.”
“I have need of loyal friends in positions of authority, on whom I can rely. I am shamed when I recall the trust I put in Hassan.”
“He was a Shiite, O Shaykh.”
Friedlander Bey waved a hand. “Nevertheless. It is time to repair the injuries that have been done to us. Your task is not finished, not yet, my son. You must help build a new structure of security.”
“I will do what I can, O Shaykh.” I didn’t like the way this was going at all, but once again I was helpless.
“Lieutenant Okking is dead and gone to his Paradise, inshallah. His position will be filled by Sergeant Hajjar, a man whom I know well and whose words and deeds I need not fear. I am considering a new and essential department — a liaison between my mends of the Budayeen and the official authorities.”
I never felt so small and so alone in my life.
Friedlander Bey went on. “I have chosen you to administer that new supervisory force.”
“Me, O Shaykh?” I asked in a quavery voice. “You don’t mean me.”
He nodded. “Let it be done.”
I felt a surge of rage and stepped toward his desk. “The hell with you and your plans!” I shouted. “You sit there and manipulate — you watch my friends die — you pay this guy and that guy and don’t give a good goddamn what happens to them as long as your money rolls in. I wouldn’t doubt that you were behind Okking and the Germans and Hassan and the Russians.” Suddenly I shut up quick. I hadn’t been thinking fast, I’d just been letting my anger out; but I could tell by the sudden tightness around Friedlander Bey’s mouth that I’d touched something pretty goddamn sensitive. “You were, weren’t you?” I said softly. “You didn’t give a flying fuck what happened to anybody. You were playing both sides. Not against the middle — there wasn’t any middle. Just you, you walking cadaver. You don’t have a human atom in you. You don’t love, you don’t hate, you don’t care. For all your kneeling and praying, you got nothing in you. I’ve seen handfuls of sand with more conscience than you.”