“I don’t blame you,” said Hajjar. He looked amused by the cop’s opinion of me. My first impression of Shaknahyi wasn’t so good, either. He didn’t have his brain wired, and that meant he was one of two kinds of cop: Either he was a strict Muslim, or else he was one of those guys who thought his own naked, unaugmented brain was more than a match for the evildoers. That’s the way I used to be, but I learned better. Either way, I wouldn’t get along with him.
“And I don’t want the responsibility of watching his back,” I said. “I don’t need that kind of pressure.”
Shaknahyi didn’t want any part of it. “I wanted to be a cop because I thought I could help people,” he said. “I don’t make a lot of money, I don’t get enough sleep, and every day I mix into one goddamn crisis after another. I never know when somebody’s gonna pull a gun on me and use it. I do it because I believe I can make a difference. I didn’t sign on to baby-sit Friedlander Bey’s protégé.” He glowered at Hajjar until the lieutenant had to look away.
“Listen,” I said to Shaknahyi, “what’s your problem with me?”
“You’re not a cop, for one thing,” he said. “You’re worse than a rookie. You’ll hang back and let some creep nail me, or else you’ll get itchy and shoot a little old lady. I don’t want to be teamed with somebody unless I think I can count on him.”
I nodded. “Yeah, you right, but I can wear a moddy. I’ve seen plenty of rookies wearing police officer moddies to help them through the routines.”
Shaknahyi threw up his hands. “He just makes it worse,” he muttered.
“Get used to it,” said Hajjar, “’cause you don’t have a choice.”
Shaknahyi rubbed his forehead and sighed. “All right, all right. I just wanted to have my objection on the record.”
“Okay,” said Hajjar, “it’s been noted.”
“Want us to start right away?” I asked.
Hajjar gave me a wry look. “If you can fit it into your busy social calendar.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Right,” said Shaknahyi, walking out of my cubicle.
“You two didn’t hit it off real well,” said Hajjar.
“We just have to get the job done,” I said. “We don’t have to go dancing together.”
“Yeah, you right.” And then he turned and left me alone, too.
4
A few days later, Friedlander Bey sent a message that he’d like to speak with me, and he invited me to have supper with him afterward. I went into my bedroom and undressed. Then I took a quick shower and thought about what I wanted to say to Friedlander Bey. I wanted to let him know that I wasn’t happy about being teamed with Officer Shaknahyi.
I got out of the shower and toweled myself dry. Then I stared into a closet for a while, deciding what to wear. Papa liked it when I wore Arab dress. I figured what the hell and picked a simple maroon gallebeya. I decided that the knitted skullcap of my homeland wasn’t appropriate, and I’m not the turban type. I settled on a plain white keffiya and fixed it in place with a simple black rope akal. I tied a corded belt around my waist, supporting a ceremonial dagger Papa’d given me. Also on the belt, pulled around behind my back, was a holster with my seizure gun. I hid that by wearing an expensive tan-colored cloak over the gallebeya. I felt I was ready for anything: a feast, a debate, or an attempted assassination. Papa’s offices were on the ground floor in the main part of the house connecting the two wings. When I got there, one of the Stones That Speak, Friedlander Bey’s twin giants, was in the corridor, guarding the door. He glanced at me and nodded, and bowed his head slightly as I went past him into Papa’s waiting room. Then he closed the door behind me. Friedlander Bey was in his inner office. He was sitting behind his gigantic desk. He didn’t look well. His elbows were on the desktop, and his head was in his hands. He was massaging his forehead. He stood up when I came in. “I am pleased,” he said. He didn’t sound pleased. He sounded exhausted.
“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.