Indihar flicked her eyes at me before she led Zahra out of the room. I couldn’t read what she was thinking.
“Have some tea,” said Shaknahyi. “Have some more hummus. “Hakim had at last found the courage to look me over. He grabbed my leg and drooled on my pants.
This was going to be even worse than I’d feared.
It was Shaknahyi’s small brown notebook, the one he’d carried in his hip pocket. The first time I’d seen it was when we’d investigated Blanca’s murder. Now I stared at its vinyl cover, smeared with bloody fingerprints, and wondered about Shaknahyi’s coded entries. I supposed I was going to have to find out what they all meant.
This was a week after my visit to Jirji and Indihar’s apartment. The day had started off on a low note and it never improved. I looked up to see Kmuzu standing beside my bed holding a tray of orange juice, toast, and coffee. I guess he’d been waiting for my wake-up daddy to kick in. He looked so sick that I almost felt sorry for the poor sucker. “Good morning, yaa Sidi,” he said softly.
I felt like hell too. “Where are my clothes?”
Kmuzu winced. “I don’t know, yaa Sidi. I don’t remember what you did with them last night.”
I didn’t remember much either. There was nothing but sick blackness from the time I came in the front door late last night until just a moment ago. I crawled out of bed naked, my head throbbing, my stomach threatening immediate upheaval. “Help me find my jeans,” I said. “My pillcase is in my jeans.”
“This is why the Lord forbids drinking,” said Kmuzu, I glanced at him; his eyes were closed and he was still holding the tray, but it was tilting dangerously. There was going to be coffee and orange juice all over my bed in a few seconds. That wasn’t important to me right then.
My clothes weren’t under the bed, which was the logical place to look. They weren’t in the closet, and they weren’t in the dressing room or the bathroom. I looked on the table in the dining area and in my small kitchen. No luck. I finally found my shoes and shirt rolled up in a ball in the bookcase, crammed between some paperback novels by Lutfy Gad, a Palestinian detective writer of the middle twenty-first century. My jeans had been folded neatly and hidden on my desk beneath several thick sheaves of computer printout.
I didn’t even put the pants on. I just grabbed the pillcase and hurried back into the bedroom. My plan was to swallow some opiates, maybe a dozen Sonneine, with the orange juice.
Too late. Kmuzu was staring down in horror at the sticky, sweet-smelling puddle on my bedclothes. He looked up at me. “I’ll clean this up,” he said, gulping down a wave of nausea, “immediately.” His expression said that he expected to lose his comfortable job in the Big House, and be sent out to the dusty fields with the other unskilled brutes.
“Don’t worry about it right now, Kmuzu. Just hand me that cup of—”
There was a gentle scraping sound as the coffee cup and saucer slid southward and tumbled over the edge of the tray. I looked at the ruined sheets. At least you couldn’t see the orange juice stain anymore.
“Yaa Sidi—”
“I want a glass of water, Kmuzu. Right now.”
It had been a hell of a night. I’d had the bright idea to go to the Budayeen after work. “I haven’t had a night out in a long time,” I said to Kmuzu when he arrived to pick me up at the station house.
“The master of the house is pleased that you’re concentrating on your work.”
“Yeah, you right, but that don’t mean I can’t see my friends now and then.” I gave him directions to Jo-Mama’s Greek club.
“If you do this, you will not get home until late, yaa Sidi.”
“I know it’ll be late. Would you rather I went out drinking in the morning?”
“You must be at the station house in the morning.”
“That’s a long time from now,” I pointed out.
“The master of the house—”
“Turn left here, Kmuzu. Now!” I wasn’t going to listen to any more argument. I guided him northwest through the twisting streets of the city. We left the car on the boulevard and walked through the gate into the Budayeen.
Jo-Mama’s club was on Third Street, jammed tight against the high northern wall of the quarter. Rocky, the relief barmaid, frowned at me when I took a stool at the front bar. She was short and hefty with brushy black hair, and she didn’t look glad to see me. “Ya want to see my manager’s license, cop?” she said in a sour voice.
“Get a grip, Rocky. I just want a gin and bingara.” I turned to Kmuzu, who was still standing behind me. “Grab a seat,” I told him.
“Who’s this?” said Rocky. “Your slave or something?”
I nodded. “Give him the same.”
Kmuzu raised a hand. “Just some club soda, please,” he said. Rocky glanced at me, and I shook my head slightly.
Jo-Mama came out of her office and grinned at me. “Marid, where y’at? You ain’t been comin’ around no more.”
“Been busy,” I said. Rocky set a drink in front of me and an identical one in front of Kmuzu.
Jo-Mama smacked his shoulder. “You know your boss here got some guts,” she said admiringly.
“I’ve heard the stories,” said Kmuzu.
“Yeah, ain’t we all?” said Rocky. Her lip curled just a little.
Kmuzu sipped his gin and bingara and grimaced. “This club soda tastes strange,” he said.
“It’s the lime juice,” I said hastily.
“Yeah, I put some lime in it for ya,” said Rocky.
“Oh,” said Kmuzu. He took another taste.
Jo-Mama snorted. She’s the largest woman I’ve ever met — big, strong, and often friendly. She has a loud, gruff voice and a remarkable memory for who owes her money and who’s done her dirt. When she laughs, you see beer splash out of glasses all around the bar; and when she gets angry, you don’t hang around long enough to see anything. “Your friends are at a table in the back,” she said.
“Who?”
“Mahmoud and the Half-Hajj and that snotty Christian.”
“Used to be my friends,” I said. Jo-Mama shrugged. I picked up my drink and went deeper into the dark cavern of the club. Kmuzu followed me.
Mahmoud, Jacques, Saied, and Saied’s adolescent American lover, Abdul-Hassan, were sitting at a table near the edge of the stage. They didn’t see me at first because they were appraising the dancer, a stranger to me but clearly a real girl. I moved a couple of chairs up to their table, and Kmuzu and I sat down.
“How ya doin’, Marid?” said the Half-Hajj.
“Look who it is,” said Mahmoud. “Come in to inspect the permits?”
“That’s a bum line I heard already from Rocky,”
It didn’t bother Mahmoud. Although as a girl he’d been lithe and pretty enough to dance here in Jo-Mama’s club, he’d put on weight and muscle after the sexchange. I wouldn’t want to fight him to see which of us was tougher.
“Why are we watching this bint?” asked Saied. Abdul-Hassan was glaring spitefully at the girl on stage. The Half-Hajj was teaching him well.
“She’s not so bad,” said Jacques, giving us the benefit of his militantly conventional viewpoint. “She’s very pretty, don’t you think?”
Saied spat on the floor. “The debs on the Street are prettier.”
“The debs on the Street are constructs,” said Jacques. “This girl’s natural.”
“Shellfish toxin is natural, if that’s what you care about,” said Mahmoud. “I’d rather watch somebody who’s spent some time and effort making herself look good.”
“Someone who’s spent a fortune on bodmods, you mean,” said Jacques.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
They ignored my question. “You hear that Blanca’s dead?” Jacques said to Mahmoud.
“Probably beaten to death in a police riot,” Mahmoud replied. His eyes flicked at me.