A Fire in the Sun (33 page)

"The kid? Not Urnm Saad herself?"

"I'm sure she directed her son to set the fire."

I wouldn't put it past her, but it didn't quite fit. "Why would she do that, though? Her whole scheme has been to get Friedlander Bey to admit that Saad is his grandson. She wants her son to be heir to Papa's estate. Killing the old man off now would leave her out in the cold."

"Who can say what her reasoning was, yaa Sidi? Perhaps she gave up her plan, and now she's seeking revenge."

Jeez, in that case, who knew what she'd try next? "You're keeping an eye on her already, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yes, yaa Sidi."

"Well, be extra watchful." I turned to go, then faced him once more. "Kmuzu," I said, "do the letters A.L.M. mean anything to you?"

He gave it a moment's thought. "Only the African Liberation Movement," he said.

"Maybe," I said dubiously. "What about the Phoenix File?"

"Oh, yes, yaa Sidi, I heard about it when I worked in Shaykh Reda's house."

I'd run into so many dead ends that I'd almost given up hope. I'd begun to think the Phoenix File was something Jirji Shaknahyi had invented, and that the meaning of the words had died with him. "Why did Abu Adil discuss it with you?" I asked.

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, Kmu/u? 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 Fried-lander 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; 7 am."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes. A big one. Now, what's your answer?"

She sighed. "Okay, Marîd, 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 Pu-alani'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.

She'd already opened her mouth to greet me with some secondhand Flaubertian sentiment, but I'd shocked her. "You don't want that, Marîd," she said in her whiny voice.

"Not for me. It's for a friend."

"None of your friends do that, either."

I stopped myself before I grabbed her by the throat. "It's not for a friend, then. It's for a goddamn enemy."

Laila smiled. "Then you want something really bad, right?"

"The worst," I said.

She bustled out from behind her counter and went to the locked door in the rear of the shop. "I don't keep merchandise like that out," she explained as she dug in a pocket for her keys. Actually, they were on a long, green plastic necklace around her neck. "I don't sell Proxy Hell moddies to kids."

"Keys are around your neck."

"Oh, thanks, dear." She unlocked the door and turned to look at me. "Be right back." She was gone a minute or two, and she returned with a small brown cardboard box.

There were three moddies in the box, all plain, gray plastic, all without manufacturer's labels. These were bootleg modules, dangerous to wear. Regular commercial moddies were carefully recorded or programmed, and all extraneous signals were removed. You gambled when you wore an underground moddy. Sometimes bootlegs were "rough," and when you popped them out, you found they'd caused major brain damage.

Laila had stuck handwritten labels on the moddies in the box. "How about infectious granuloma?" she asked.

I considered it for a moment, but decided that it was too much like what Abu Adil had been wearing when I'd first met him. "No," I said.

"Okay," said Laila, pushing the moddies around with her long, crooked forefinger. "Cholecystitis?"

"What's that?"

"Don't have any idea."

"What's the third one?"

Laila held it up and read the label. "D Syndrome."

I shivered. I'd heard about that. It's some kind of awful nerve degeneration, a disease caused by slow viruses. The patient first suffers gaps in both long- and short-term memories. The viruses continue to eat away at the nervous system until the patient collapses, staring and stupid, bedridden and in terrible agony. Finally, in the last stages, he dies when his body forgets how to breathe or keep its heart beating. "How much for this?" I asked.

"Fifty kiam," she said. She looked up slowly into my eyes and grinned. The few teeth she still had were black stumps, and the effect was grotesquely ugly. "You pay extra 'cause it's a hard-to-get item."

"All right," I said. I paid her and stuffed the D Syndrome moddy in my pocket. Then I tried to get out of Laila's shop.

"You know," she said, putting her clawlike hand on my arm, "my lover is taking me to the opera tonight. All of Rouen will see us together!"

I pulled myself away and hurried out the door. "In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful," I muttered.

During the long drive out to Abu Adil's estate, I thought about recent events. If Kmuzu were right, then the fire had been started by Umm Saad's son. I didn't think that young Saad had acted on his own. Yet Umar had assured me that neither he nor Abu Adil still employed Umm Saad. He had flatly invited me to dispose of her, if I found her too irritating. Then if Umm Saad wasn't getting her orders direct from Abu Adil, why had she decided suddenly to take things into her own hands?

And Jawarski. Had he taken a few potshots at me because he didn't like my looks, or because Hajjar had let Abu Adil know that I was nosing around after the Phoenix File? Or were there even more sinister connections that I hadn't yet discovered? At this point, I didn't dare trust Saied or even Kmuzu. Morgan was the only other person who had my confidence, and I had to admit that there really wasn't any good reason to trust him, either. He just reminded me of the way I used to be, before I'd gone to work changing a corrupt system from within.

That, by the way, was my current rationalization for what I was doing, the easy life I was leading. I suppose the bitter truth was that I didn't have the guts to face Fried-

lander Bey's wrath, or the heart to turn my back on his money. I told myself that I was using my position deep in the pits of dishonor to help the less fortunate. It didn't really shut up my guilty conscience.

As I drove, the guilt and loneliness amounted almost to desperation, and are probably to blame for the tactical error that came next. Maybe I should have had more faith in Saied or Kmuzu. I could at least have brought one of the Stones That Speak with me. Instead, I was counting on my n cleverness to see me through a confrontation with Aou Adil. After all, I did have two separate plans: First, I thought I might try bribing him with the D Syndrome noddy; and second, if he didn't take to buttering up, my fallback position consisted of hitting him between the •js with my full knowledge of what he was up to.

Well, hell, it sounded like a great idea at the time.

The guard at Abu Adil's gate recognized me and passed me through, although Kamal, the butler, demanded to know what I wanted. "I've brought a gift for Shaykh Reda," I said. "It's urgent that I talk with him."

He wouldn't let me leave the foyer. "Wait here," he •id with a sneer. "I will see if it is permitted."