A Fire in the Sun (37 page)

"I know." I'd come to enjoy owning the place. I'd originally planned to turn the club back to Chiri as soon as possible, but now I'd decided to hang on to it for a while. It made me feel great to get special treatment from Brandi, Kandy, Pualani and the others. I liked being Mr. Boss.

After Yasmin left, I went to my desk and sat down. My original apartment had been repaired and painted, and I was living again on the second floor of the west wing. Staying just down the hall from my mother had been nerve-wracking, even for only a few days, even after our surprise reconciliation. I felt recovered enough to turn my attention back to the unfinished business of Umm Saad and Abu Adil.

When I finally decided that I couldn't put it off any longer, I picked up the tan-colored moddy, the recording of Abu Adil. "Bismillah," I murmured, and then hesitantly I reached up and chipped it in.

Madness, by the life of the Prophet!

Audran felt as if he were peering through a narrow tunnel, seeing the world with Abu Adil's mean, self-centered outlook. Things were only good for Abu Adil or bad for Abu Adil; if they were neither, they did not exist.

The next thing Audran noticed was that he was in a state of sexual arousal. Of course; Abu Adil's only sexual pleasure came from jamming himself, or a facsimile of himself. That's what Umar was—a frame on which to hang this electronic duplicate. And Umar was too stupid to realize that's all he was, that he had no other qualifications that made him valuable. When he displeased Abu Adil, or began to bore him, Umar would be replaced immediately, as so many others had been disposed of over the years.

What about the Phoenix File? What did A.L.M. mean?

Of course, the memory was right there . . . Alif. Lam. Mim.

They weren't initials at all. They weren't some unknown acronym. They came from the Qur'&n. Many of the surahs in the Qur'&n began with letters of the alphabet. No one knew what they meant. Indications of some mystical phrase, perhaps, or the initials of a scribe. Their significance had been lost through the centuries.

There was more than one surah that began with Alif, Lam, Mim, but Audran knew immediately which one was special. It was Surah Thirty, called The Romans; the important line read "Allah is He Who created you and then sustained you, then causeth you to die, then giveth life to you again. "It was obvious that, just like Friedlander Bey, , Shaykh Reda also pictured his own face when he spoke the name of God.

And suddenly Audran knew that the Phoenix File, with its lists of unsuspecting people who might be murdered for organs, was recorded on a cobalt-alloy memory plate hidden in Abu Adil's private bedroom.

And other things became clear to Audran as well. When he thought of Umm Saad, Abu Adil's memory related that she was not, in fact, any relation to Friedlander Bey, but that she had agreed to spy on him. Umm Saad's reward would be the removal of her name and that of her son from the Phoenix File. She would never have to worry  that someday someone she did not even know might have greater need of her heart or her liver or her lungs.  Audran learned that it had been Umm Saad who'd hired Paul Jawarski, and Abu Adil had extended his protection to the American killer. Umm Saad had brought Jawarski to the city and passed along the assignments from Shaykh Reda to kill certain people listed on the Phoenix File. Umm Saad was partly responsible for those deaths, and for the fire and the poisoning of Friedlander Bey.

Audran was sickened, and the horrible, floating feeling of insanity was threatening to overwhelm him. He reached up and grabbed the moddy and pulled it free.

Yipe. That was the first time I'd ever used a moddy recorded from a living person. It had been a disgusting experience. It had been like being immersed in slime, except that you could wash slime away; having your mind fouled was more intimate and more terrible. From now on, I promised myself, I'd stick with fictional characters and moddy constructs.

Abu Adil was even more brainsick than I'd imagined. Still, I'd learned a few things—or, at least, my suspicions had been confirmed. Surprisingly, I could understand Umm Saad's motivations. If I'd known about the Phoenix File, I'd have done anything to get my name off" it too.

I wanted to talk some of this over with Kmuzu, but he wasn't back from his Sabbath service yet. I thought I'd see if my mother had anything more to tell me.

I crossed the courtyard to the east wing. There was a little pause when I knocked on her door. "Coming," she called. I heard glass clinking, then the sound of a drawer opening and shutting. "Coming." When she opened the door to me, I could smell the Irish whiskey. She'd been very circumspect during her stay in Papa's house, I'm sure she drank and took drugs as much as ever, but at least she had the self-control not to parade herself around when she was smashed.

"Peace be on you, O Mother," I said.

"And on you be peace," she said. She leaned against the door a little unsteadily. "Do you want to come in, O Shaykh?"

"Yes, I need to talk to you." I waited until she'd

opened the door wider and stepped back. I came in and took a seat on the couch. She faced me in a comfortable armchair.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I got nothin' to offer you." "Uh yeah, that's okay." She looked well. She had abandoned the outlandish makeup and clothing, and now she rather resembled my former mental image of her: Her hair was brushed, she was suitably dressed, and she was modestly seated with her hands folded in her lap. I recalled Kmuzu's comment that I judged my mother more harshly than I judged myself, and forgave her the drunkenness. She wasn't hurting anybody.

"O Mother," I said, "you said that when you came back to the city, you made the mistake of trusting Abu Adil again. I know that it was my friend Saied who brought you here."

"You know that?" she said. She seemed wary.,

"And I know about the Phoenix File. Now, why were you willing to spy on Friedlander Bey?"

Her expression was amazed. "Hey," she said, "if somebody offered to cross you off that goddamn list, wouldn't you do just about anything? I mean, hell, I told myself I wouldn't give Abu Adil nothin' he could really use against Papa. I didn't think I was hurtin' nobody."

That's just what I'd hoped to hear. Abu Adil had squeezed Umm Saad and my mother in the same vise. Umm Saad had responded by trying to kill everyone in our house. My mother had reacted differently; she'd fled to Friedlander Bey's protection.

I pretended that the matter wasn't important enough to discuss further. "You also said that you wished to do something useful with your life. You still feel that way?" "Sure, I suppose," she said suspiciously. She looked uncomfortable, as if she were waiting for me to condemn her to some horrible fate of civic consciousness.

"I've put away some money," I said, "and I've given Kmuzu the job of starting up a kind of charity kitchen in the Budayeen. I was wondering if you'd like to help with the project."

"Oh sure," she said, frowning, "whatever you want." She couldn't have been less enthusiastic if I'd asked her to cut out her own tongue.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

I was startled to see tears slipping down her pale cheek. "You know, I didn't think I'd come to this. I'm still good lookin', ain't I? I mean, your father thought I was beautiful. He used to tell me that all the time, and that wasn't so long ago. I think if I had some decent clothes— not that stuff I brought with me from Algiers—I could still turn a few heads. No reason I got to be lonely the rest of my life, is there?"

I didn't want to get into that. "You're still attractive, Mother."

"You bet your ass," she said, smiling again. "I'm gonna get me a short skirt and some boots. Don't look at me that way, I mean a tasteful short skirt. Fifty-seven years old ain't so bad these days. Look at Papa."

Yeah, well, Papa was lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to pull his own sheet up under his chin.

"And you know what I want?" she asked with a dreamy expression.

I was afraid to ask. "No, what?" "I saw this picture of Umm Khalthoum in the souk. Ifade out of thousands of flat-head nails. This guy pounded 'em all into this big board, then painted each nail head a different color. You can't see what it is close up, but •• en you step back, it's this gorgeous picture of The Lady."

"Yeah, you righi," I said. I could just see it hanging on the wall over Friedlander Bey's expensive and tasteful furniture.

"Well, hell, I got some money put away too." I must have looked surprised, because she said, "I got some wcrets of my own, you know. I been around, I seen things. I got my own friends and I got my own cash. So don't think 11 can order my life for me just 'cause you set me up here. I can pick up and leave anytime I want."

"Mother," I said, "I really don't want to tell you how to act or what to do. I just thought you might like helping out in the Budayeen. There's a lot of people there as poor as we used to be."

She wasn't listening closely. "We used to be poor, Marîd," she said, drifting off to a fantasy recollection of what those times had been like, "but we was always happy. Those were the good days." Then her expression

turned sad, and she looked at me again. "And look at me

now.

"Got to go," I said. I stood up and headed for the door. "May your vigor continue, O Mother. By your leave."

"Go in peace," she said, coming with me to the door. "Remember what I told you."

I didn't know what she meant. Even under the best conditions, conversations with my mother were filled with little information and much static. With her, it was always one step forward and two steps back. I was glad to see that she didn't seem to have any thoughts of returning to Algiers, or going into her old line of work here. At least, that's what I thought she'd meant. She'd said something about "turning some heads," but I hoped she meant purely in a noncommercial way. I thought about these things as I went back to my suite in the west wing.

Kmuzu had returned, and was gathering up our dirty laundry. "A call came for you, yaa Sidi," he said.

"Here?" I wondered why it hadn't come on my personal line, on the phone I wore on my belt.

"Yes. There was no message, but you are supposed to call Mahmoud. I left the number on your desk."

This could be good news. I'd planned to tackle the second of my three targets next—Umm Saad; but she might have to wait. I went to the desk and spoke Mahmoud's commcode into the phone. He answered immediately. "Allo," he said.

"Where y'at, Mahmoud. It's Marîd."

"Good.. I have some business to discuss with you."

"Let me get comfortable." I pulled out a chair and sat down. I couldn't help a grin from spreading over my face. "Okay, what you got?"

There was a slight pause. "As you know, I was greatly saddened by the death of Jirji Shaknahyi, may the blessings of Allah be on him."

I knew nothing of the kind. If I hadn't known Indihar was married, I doubted if Mahmoud or Jacques or anybody else knew either. Maybe Chiriga. Chiri always knew these things. "It was a tragedy to the entire city," I said. I was staying noncommittal.

"It was a tragedy to our Indihar. She must be helpless with grief. And to have no money now, that must make her situation even harder. I'm sorry that I suggested she  work for me. That was callous. I spoke quickly before I considered what I was saying."

"Indihar is a devout Muslim," I said coldly. "She's not about to turn tricks for you or for anyone."

"I know that, Marîd. No need for you to be so defensive on her behalf. But she's realized that she can't support all her children. You mentioned that she'd be willing to place one of them in a good foster home, and perhaps earn enough that way to feed and clothe the others in a proper manner."

I bated what I was doing. "You may not know it," I said, "but my own mother was forced to sell my little brother when we were children."

"Now, now, Maghrebi," said Mahmoud, "don't think of it as 'selling.' No one's got the right to sell a child. We can't continue this conversation if you maintain that attitude."

"Fine. Whatever you say. It's not selling; call it whatever you want. The point is, have you found someone who might be interested in adopting?"

Mahmoud paused. "Not exactly," he said at last. "But I know a man who frequently acts as go-between, arranging these matters. I've dealt with him before, and I can vouch for his honesty and delicacy. You can see that these transactions require a great amount of sympathy and tact."

"Sure," I said. "That's important. Indihar is in enough pain as it is."

"Exactly. That's why this man is so highly recommended. He's able to place a child in a loving home immediately, and he's able to present the natural parent with a cash gift in such a way as to prevent any guilt or recriminations. It's just his way. I think Mr. On is the perfect solution to Indihar's problem."

"Mr. On?"

"His name is On Cheung. He's a businessman from Kansu China. I've had the privilege of acting as his agent before."

"Uh yeah." I squeezed my eyes shut and listened to the blood roaring in my head. "This is leading us into the topic of money. How much will this Mr. On pay, and do you get a cut of it?"

"For the elder son, five hundred kiam. For the

younger son, three hundred kiam. For the daughter, two hundred fifty. There are also bonuses: an extra two hundred kiam for two children, and five hundred if Indihar relinquishes all three. I, of course, take 10 percent. If you have arranged with her for a fee, that must come from the remainder."

"Sounds fair enough. That's better than Indihar had hoped, to be truthful."

"I told you that Mr. On was a generous man."

"Now what? Do we meet somewhere or what?"

Mahmoud's voice was growing excited. "Of course, both Mr. On and I will need to examine the children, to be sure they're fit and healthy. Can you have them at 7 Rafi ben Garcia Street in half an hour?"

"Sure, Mahmoud. See you then. Tell On Cheung to bring his money." I hung up the phone. "Kmuzu," I called, "forget about the laundry. We're going out."

"Yes, yaa Sidi. Shall I bring the car around?"

"Uh huh." I got up and threw a gallebeya over my jeans. Then I stuffed my static pistol in the pocket. I didn't trust either Mahmoud or the baby seller.