Chiri’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t think anything. Do I have to?” Chiri’s the only person in the Budayeen with any sense. And that includes me.
The afternoon passed slowly. The other three dancers, Lily, Kitty, and Baby, came in when they felt like it. We made a little money, sold a few drinks, the girls hustled some champagne cocktails. I listened to the same damn Sikh propaganda songs on the holo system and watched my employees parade their talents.
It was getting on toward dinnertime when Lily and Yasmin got into an argument with two poor European marks. I strolled over toward their table, not because I care anything for marks — I generally don’t — but because a bad enough argument might send the two guys out into the Street and into somebody else’s club.
“Marîd, listen —” Lily said.
I held up a hand, interrupting her. “Are you two gentlemen enjoying yourselves?” I asked.
They had puzzled looks on their faces, but they nodded. Some people are born marks, others achieve markdom, and some people have markdom thrust upon them.
“What’s the problem?” I said in a warning voice. “I can hear you all the way across the bar.”
“We were talking about Vi,” Lily said. “We were warning Lazaro and Karoly to stay out of that alley.”
“We were going to suggest a nice, safe place where we could go,” Yasmin said. She tried to look innocent again. Yasmin hasn’t been innocent since her baby teeth fell out.
“Look, you two,” I said, meaning my two fun-loving hustlers, “let me clear this up right now. I’ll call the morgue and find out what they know about crazy Vi.”
“You’re gonna call the morgue?” Lily said. She was suddenly very interested.
“Get back to work,” I said. I went back to my seat at the bar. I unclipped the phone from my belt and murmured the commcode of the Budayeen’s morgue. The medical examiner there, Dr. Besharati, had helped me with a couple of other matters over the years. He was normal enough for a guy who worked surrounded by dead bodies all day. He liked to tootle a jazz trumpet in between autopsies. That was his kick.
I got one of his assistants. The coroner was busy putting brains into jars or something. “Yeah? Medical examiner’s office.”
“I wanted to get some information about one of the, ah, deceased currently in your custody.”
“You a family member?”
I blinked. “Sure,” I said.
“Okay, then. What you want?”
“Young woman, killed last night in an alley in the Budayeen. Her name was Vi.”
“Yeah?” He wasn’t making it any easier for me.
“We were just wondering if you have determined the cause of death yet.”
There was a long pause while the assistant went off to investigate. When he returned he said, “Well, we ain’t got to her yet, but she died on account she was murdered. Slashed throat, heavy loss of blood. That’ll do it every time.”
I grimaced. I could only hope they’d be a little gentler with Vi’s real family. “Could you tell me, were there any puncture wounds on the throat?”
“Told you we ain’t got to her yet. Don’t know. Call again tomorrow maybe. We ought to have her on the slab by then. Do you need to come watch?”
I just hung up after leaving my commcode. I was sure that Lily would have happily viewed the autopsy, but even if I couldn’t quite remember who Vi was, she probably deserved better treatment than that.
The two European marks got up and left the club about a half hour later. Yasmin came and leaned against the bar near me. She was brushing her hair again. “What jerks,” she said.
They’re all jerks, is the general opinion.
“I called about Vi,” I said. “No vampire. She was just murdered in the alley.”
“Huh,” Lily said dubiously. “Like she could bite herself in her own neck.”
I spread my hands. “They haven’t confirmed the business about the puncture wounds. You’re just exaggerating all of this way out of proportion.”
Yasmin looked at me knowingly. “You’ll see,” she said. She turned to Lily, who nodded her agreement. Dealing with my employees is sometimes very hard on my nerves. I thought about having my first drink of the day, but I didn’t. I went out to get something to eat instead.
Now, Chiriga’s is about halfway between the eastern gate of the Budayeen and the western end — the cemetery. There are plenty of places to eat along the Street, and on this particular occasion I decided to head toward Kiyoshi’s. I hadn’t walked far before I saw the Lamb Lady.
“Oh boy,” I muttered. Safiyya the Lamb Lady is a regular feature of the Budayeen, one of our favorite odd characters. She’s harmless, but she can talk at you so long you’re sure you’ll never get away. She lives on money people give her and she sleeps wherever anybody will let her. I’ve let her stay in my club a few times. She’s completely honest, just addled a bit. That’s why I was surprised to see her wearing a lot of expensive-looking jewelry. She had on eight or ten silver rings, two silver necklaces, silver earrings, and silver bracelets and bangles from her wrists halfway to her elbows.
“Where’d you get all that, Safiyya?” I asked.
“Watch out for the lamb,” she said in a hoarse voice. She used to have a lamb that followed her around the Budayeen, but it was accidentally killed. Now Safiyya has an imaginary lamb. I’d almost bumped into it.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Isn’t this nice stuff?” she said. She jingled her bracelets. “I found it all in the trash.”
“In the trash?” The silver she was wearing must have been worth four or five hundred kiam. “Where?”
“Oh, it’s all gone now,” Safiyya said. “I took it. I’ll show you, though, if you want to see.” I followed her because I was curious. She led me to the back of a whitewashed, two-story apartment building, where four trash cans had been upended. Garbage was strewn all over the narrow passageway between buildings, but we didn’t find any more jewelry.
When Safiyya started showing off all this silver, she would make herself a target for robbery, or worse. I decided to mention this to one of my connections in the police department; they’d keep an eye on Safiyya. With crazy Vi’s unsolved murder the night before, I guessed there’d be a stronger police presence in the Budayeen tonight. I’d hate to see the Lamb Lady become the killer’s second victim.
However, the rest of the day passed quietly. Nothing happened to Safiyya, and nothing happened to me. I went home, trimmed my beard, took a long shower, and sat down at my desk to get some of my paperwork done. After a while, Kmuzu interrupted me.
“The master of the house wishes you to meet with him in an hour, yaa Sidi,” he said.
I nodded. The master of the house was my great-grandfather, Friedlander Bey, who controlled much of the illicit activities in the city. He was a very powerful man, so powerful that he also found it profitable to control the rise and fall of certain nearby nations. It was like a hobby with him.
Forty-five minutes later I was dressed the way Papa liked me to dress, standing at the door to his office. It was guarded by Habib and Labib, Papa’s huge, silent bodyguards. I wasn’t going in until they felt like letting me go in.
Tariq, Friedlander Bey’s secretary and valet, came out and noticed me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said.
I shrugged. “I’ve just been watching these two guys. You know, they don’t move at all. They don’t even breathe. How do they manage that?”
Tariq did the smart thing and ignored me. He ushered me into Papa’s inner office. Friedlander Bey reclined on a lacquered divan. He indicated that I should seat myself across from him. Between us was a table loaded down with trays of food and fruit, juices and silver coffee things. We chatted informally while we drank the customary cups of coffee. Then, suddenly, Papa was all business.
“You are spending too much time in the Budayeen,” he said.
“But O Shaykh, you gave me the nightclub — “
He raised a hand. I shut up. “There are more important matters. Representatives from the Empire of Parthia will be arriving tomorrow. They wish our support in their expansion into Kush.”