“It’s my honor to wish you good evening, O Shaykh,” I said. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of baggy gray trousers. He probably wouldn’t even notice the trouble I’d taken to dress conservatively. You can’t win, right?
“We will dine soon, my son. In the meantime, sit with me. There are matters that need our attention.”
I sat in a comfortable chair beside his desk. Papa took his seat again and fiddled with some papers, frowning. It wasn’t my place to question him. He’d begin when he was ready.
He shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them, sighing. His sparse white hair was rumpled, and he hadn’t shaved that morning. I guessed he had a lot on his mind. I was a little afraid of what he was going to order me to do this time.
“We must speak,” he said. “There is the matter of alms-giving.”
Okay, I’ll admit it: Of all the possible problems he could have chosen, alms-giving was pretty low on my list of what I expected to hear. How foolish of me to think he wanted to discuss something more to the point. Like murder.
“I’m afraid I’ve had more important things on my mind, O Shaykh,” I said.
Friedlander Bey nodded wearily. “No doubt, my son, you truly believe these other things are more important, but you are wrong. You and I share an existence of luxury and comfort, and that gives us a responsibility to our brothers.”
Jacques, my infidel friend, would’ve had trouble grasping his precise point. Sure, other religions are all in favor of charity, too. It’s just good sense to take care of the poor and needy, because you never know when you’re going to end up poor and needy yourself. The Muslim attitude goes further, though. Alms-giving is one of the five pillars of the religion, as fundamental an obligation as the profession of faith, the daily prayer, the fast of Ramadan, and the pilgrimage to Makkah.
I gave the same attention to alms-giving that I gave the other duties. That is, I had profound respect for them in an intellectual sort of way, and I told myself that I’d begin practicing in earnest real soon now.
“Evidently you’ve been considering this for some time,” I said.
“We have been neglecting our duty to the poor and the wayfarers, and the widows and orphans among our neighbors.”
Some of my friends — my old friends, my former friends — think Papa is nothing but a murderous monster, but that’s not true. He’s a shrewd businessman who also maintains strong ties to the faith that created our culture. I’m sorry if that seems like a contradiction. He could be harsh, even cruel, at times; but I knew no one else as sincere in his beliefs or as glad to meet the many obligations of the noble Qur’ân.
“What do you wish me to do, O my uncle?”
Friedlander Bey shrugged. “Do I not reward you well for your services?”
“You are unfailingly gracious, O Shaykh,” I said.
“Then it would not be a hardship for you to set aside a fifth part of your substance, as is suggested in the Straight Path. Indeed, I desire to make a gift to you that will swell your purse and, at the same time, give you a source of income independent of this house.”
That caught my attention. Freedom was what I hungered for every night as I drifted off to sleep. It was what I thought of first when I woke in the morning. And the first step toward freedom was financial independence.
“You are the father of generosity, O Shaykh,” I said, “but I am unworthy.” Believe me, I was panting to hear what he was going to say. Proper form, however, required me to pretend that I couldn’t possibly accept his gift.
He raised one thin, trembling hand. “I prefer that my associates have outside sources of income, sources that they manage themselves and whose profits they need not share with me.”
“That is a wise policy,” I said. I’ve known a lot of Papa’s “associates,” and I know what kind of sources they had. I was sure he was about to cut me into some shady vice deal. Not that I had scruples, you understand. I wouldn’t mind getting my drugs wholesale. I’ve just never had much of a mind for commerce.
“Until recently the Budayeen was your whole world. You know it well, my son, and you understand its people. I have a great deal of influence there, and I thought it best to acquire for you some small commercial concern in that quarter.” He extended to me a document laminated in plastic.
I reached forward and took it from him. “What is this, O Shaykh?” I asked.
“It is a title deed. You are now the owner of the property described upon it. From this day forward it is your business to operate. It is a profitable enterprise, my nephew. Manage it well and it will reward you, inshallah.”
I looked at the deed. “You’re — “My voice choked. Papa had bought Chiriga’s club and was giving it to me. I looked up at him. “But-“
He waved his hand at me. “No thanks are necessary,” he said. “You are my dutiful son.”
“But this is Chiri’s place. I can’t take her club. What will she do?”
Friedlander Bey shrugged. “Business is business,” he said simply.
I just stared at him. He had a remarkable habit of giving me things I would have been happier without: my career as a cop, for instance. It wouldn’t do any good at all to refuse. “I’m quite unable to express my thanks,” I said in a dull voice. I had only two good friends left, Saied the Half-Hajj and Chiri. She was really going to hate this. I was already dreading her reaction.
“Come,” said Friedlander Bey, “let us go in to dinner.” He stood up behind his desk and held out his hand to me. I followed him, still astonished. It wasn’t until later that I realized I hadn’t spoken to him about my job with Hajjar.
Chiri’s club was crowded that night. The air was still and warm inside, sweet with a dozen different perfumes, sour with sweat and spilled beer. The sexchanges and pre-op debs chatted with the customers with false cheerfulness, and their laughter broke through the shrill music as they called for more champagne cocktails. Bright bolts of red and blue neon slashed down slantwise behind the bar, and brilliant points of light from spinning mirrorballs sparkled on the walls and ceiling. In one comer there was a hologram of Honey Pi’lar, writhing alone upon a blond mink coat spread on the white sands of some romantic beach. It was an ad for her new sex moddy, Slow, Slow Burn. I stared at it for a moment, almost hypnotized.
“Audran,” came Chiriga’s hoarse voice. She didn’t sound happy to see me. “Mr. Boss.”
“Listen, Chiri,” I said. “Let me — “
“Lily,” she called to one of the changes, “get the new owner a drink. Gin and bingara with a hit of Rose’s.” She looked at me fiercely. “The tende is mine, Audran. Private stock. It doesn’t go with the club, and I’m taking it with me.”
She was making it hard for me. I could only imagine how she felt. “Wait a minute, Chiri. I had nothing to do with — “
“These are the keys. This one’s for the register. The money in there’s all yours. The girls are yours, the hassles are yours from now on, too. You got any problems, you can go to Papa with ‘em.” She snatched her bottle of tende from under the bar. “Kwa heri, motherfucker,” she snarled at me. Then she stormed out of the club.
Everything got real quiet then. Whatever song had been playing came to an end and nobody put on another one. A deb named Kandy was on stage, and she just stood there and stared at me like I might start slavering and shrieking at any moment. People got up from their stools near me and edged away. I looked into their faces and I saw hostility and contempt.