They were all there, all right. Jacques was the token Christian in our crowd. He liked to tell people that he was three-quarters European. Jacques was strictly heterosexual and smug about it. Nobody liked him much. Mahmoud was a sexchange, formerly a slim-hipped, doe-eyed dancing girl in the clubs on the Street. Now he was short, broad, and mean, like one of those evil djinn you had to sneak past to rescue the enchanted princess. I heard that he was running the organized prostitution in the Budayeen for Friedlander Bey these days. Saied the Half-Hajj glared at me over the rim of a glass of Johnny Walker, his usual drink. He was wearing his tough-guy moddy, and he was just looking for me to give him an excuse to break my bones.
“Where y’at?” I said.
“You’re scum, Audran,” said Jacques softly. “Filth.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I can’t stay long.” I sat in the empty chair. Monsieur Gargotier came over to see if I was spending any money tonight. His expression was so carefully neutral, I could tell he hated my guts now too.
“Seen Chiri pass by here in the last few minutes?” I asked. Monsieur Gargotier cleared his throat. I ignored him and he went away.
“Want to shake her down some more?” asked Mahmoud. “Think maybe she walked out with some paper clips that belong to you? Leave her alone, Audran.”
I’d had enough. I stood up, and Saied stood up across the table from me. He took two quick steps toward me, grabbed my cloak with one hand, and pulled his other fist straight back. Before he could slug me, I chopped quickly at his nose. A little blood came out of his nostril. He was startled, but then his mouth began to twist in pure rage. I grabbed the rnoddy on his corymbic implant and ripped it loose. I could see his eyes unfocus. He must have been completely disoriented for a moment. “Leave me the hell alone,” I said, pushing him back down in his chair. “All of you.” I tossed the moddy into the Half-Hajj’s lap.
I headed back down the Street, seething. I didn’t know what to do next. Chiri’s club — my club, now — was packed with people and I couldn’t count on Indihar to keep order. I decided to go back there and try to sort things out. Before I’d walked very far, Saied came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re making yourself real unpopular, Maghrebi,” he said.
“It’s not all my doing.”
He shook his head. “You’re letting it happen. You’re responsible.”
“Thanks,” I said. I kept walking.
He took my right hand and slapped his badass moddy into it. “You take this,” he said. “I think you’re gonna need it.”
I frowned. “The kind of problems I got call for a clear head, Saied. I got all these moral questions to think about. Not just Chiri and her club. Other things.”
The Half-Hajj grunted. “Never understand you, Marid,” he said. “You sound like a tired old relic. You’re as bad as Jacques. If you just choose your moddies carefully, you never have to worry about moral questions. God knows I never do.”
That’s all I needed to hear. “See you around, Saied,” I said.
“Yeah, you right.” He turned and headed back to the Fee Blanche.
I went on to Chiri’s where I shooed everybody out, closed up the place, and drove back to Friedlander Bey’s. I climbed the stairs wearily to my apartment, glad that the long, surprise-filled day was finally over. As I was getting ready for bed, Kmuzu appeared quietly in the doorway. “You shouldn’t deceive me, yaa Sidi.”
“Your feelings hurt, Kmuzu?”
“I am here to help you. I’m sorry you refused my protection. A time may come when you will be glad to call on me.”
“That’s quite possibly true,” I said, “but in the meantime, how about leaving me alone?”
He shrugged. “Someone is waiting to see you, yaa Sidi.”
I blinked at him. “Who?”
“A woman.”
I didn’t have the energy to deal with Umm Saad now. Then again, it might be Chiri -
“Shall I show her in?” asked Kmuzu.
“Yeah, what the hell.” I was still dressed, but I was getting very tired. I promised myself that this was going to be a very short conversation.
“Marid?”
I looked around. Framed in the door, wearing a ragged brown cloth coat, holding a battered plastic suitcase, was Angel Monroe. Mom.
“Thought I’d come spend a few days with you in the city,” she said. She grinned drunkenly. “Hey, ain’t you glad to see me?”
When my admirable add-on woke me on Monday morning, I lay in bed for a few moments, thinking. I was willing to admit that maybe I’d made a few mistakes the night before. I wasn’t sure how I might have repaired the situation with Chiri, but I should have tried. I owed that much to her and our friendship. I wasn’t happy about seeing my mother at the door later, either. I’d solved that problem by digging out fifty kiam and packing her off into the night. I sent Kmuzu with her to find a hotel room. At breakfast, Friedlander Bey offered me some constructive criticism on that decision.
He was furious. There was a husky, hoarse quality to his voice that let me know he was trying like hell not to shout at me. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I could feel him tremble with emotion. His breath was perfumed with mint as he quoted the noble Qur’an. “If one of your parents or both of them attain old age with thee, say not fie unto them nor repulse them, but speak unto them a gracious word. And lower unto them the wing of submission through mercy, and say: My Lord! Have mercy on them both as they did care for me when I was little.”
I felt shaken. Being inundated by Friedlander Bey’s wrath was kind of like practicing for The Day of Judgment. He’d think that comparison was sacrilegious, of course, but he’s never been the target of his own fury.
I couldn’t keep from stammering. “You mean Angel Monroe.” Jeez, that was a lame thing to say, but Papa’d surprised me with this tirade. I still wasn’t thinking clearly.
“I’m talking about your mother,” he said. “She came to you in need, and you turned her away from your door.”
“I provided for her the best way I knew how.” I wondered how Papa had heard about the incident in the first place.
“You do not cast your mother out to abide with strangers! Now you must seek the forgiveness of Allah.”
That made me feels a little better. This was one of those times when he said “Allah” but he meant “Fried-lander Bey.” I had sinned against his personal code; but if I could find the right things to say and do, it would be all right again. “O Shaykh,” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully, “I know how you feel about women in your house. I hesitated to invite her to stay the night under your roof, and it was too late to consult with you. I balanced my mother’s need against your custom, and I did what I thought best.” Well, hell, that was almost true.
He glared at me, but I could see that he’d lost the edge of his anger. “Your action was a worse affront to me than having your mother as a guest in my home,” he said.
“I understand, O Shaykh, and I beg you to forgive me. I did not mean to offend you or disregard the teaching of the Prophet.”
“May the blessing of Allah be upon him and peace,” Papa murmured automatically. He shook his head ruefully, but with each passing second his grim expression lightened. “You are still young, my son. This is not the last error of judgment you will make. If you are to become a righteous man and a compassionate leader, you must learn from my example. When you are in doubt, never be afraid to seek my counsel, whatever the time or place.”
“Yes, O Shaykh,” I said quietly. The storm had passed.
“Now you must find your mother, return her here, and make her welcome in a suitable apartment. We have many unused rooms, and this house is yours as well as mine.”