These three hung out together all the time. In simpler days — when I was still living on the street and my time was my own — I hung out with them, too. We used to sit in the Cafe Solace and play cards and gossip. I don’t get to do that much anymore.
The Half-Hajj had brought a date — some guy with light brown hair and blue eyes, tall but not very muscular, and good-looking enough, I suppose. My eyebrows raised, because I knew that Saied had been keeping time with the American kid everyone called Abdul-Hassan, whom he’d inherited when the boy’s previous protector was killed.
I knew better than to say a word, though. In the Budayeen, you never ask personal questions, not even something as innocent as “How’s the wife and kids?” Since the last time you saw them, they could have been sold into slavery or traded for a nice Esmeraldas holo system.
I went to greet them. “You just missed Indihar,” I said. “She brought the food and left.”
“Marîd,” Jacques said, “the drinks are on the house, right?”
That was so goddamn typical. “Yes, Jacques,” I said, “the drinks are free.” He smiled and went to the bar. I glanced at Saied, who just gave me a little shrug.
“It’s good that you’re making the hajj,” Mahmoud said.
“As if the religion means a copper fiq to you,” Saied said.
“Well,” I said, “it’s mostly Friedlander Bey’s idea.”
“It usually is,” Jacques said. He had come back carrying what looked like a tequila mockingbird. He’d probably had to tell Rocky how to make one.
“Papa’s starting to hear the calendar pages whisper,” I said. “He wants to go on the pilgrimage before he gets too old.”
“Ha,” Mahmoud said, “he’ll outlive us all.”
“He’ll certainly outlive some of us, I’m sure.” I tried to look completely innocent when I said that. I don’t even know if Mahmoud understood what I meant.
Saied reached out and tapped me on the shoulder with a forefinger. “I really should introduce you. Marîd, darling, this is my new friend, Ratomir. He’s in the city on business.”
“It’s Radomil, actually.” He gave me a brief, empty smile. “Good to meet you. You own this club?” He was obviously European, but he was speaking perfect Arabic. I took it for granted that he had an Arabic-language daddy chipped in.
“I own half of it,” I said. “Get a drink, have some food.”
“Let me get you something, sweetheart,” the Half-Hajj said. “What are we drinking?”
“Beer is fine,” Radomil said. Saied nodded and went to get the beer. A couple of things startled me: First, I don’t believe I’d ever heard Saied use any term of endearment on any occasion whatsoever; and second, he never fetched for anyone. That wasn’t his image, and he cared a lot about his image.
“It’s his new moddy,” Mahmoud said, knowing what I was thinking.
“Has to be,” I said.
“It’s a niceness moddy,” Jacques said. He was having trouble stifling his laughter.
I shook my head in wonder. Until now, the Half-Hajj’s favorite moddy had been Rex, the Butch Brute.
Radomil looked puzzled. “I rather prefer this personality to the one he was wearing when I first met him.”
Saied returned, and while he was handing Radomil a glass of beer and a plate of sushi, Jacques whispered in my ear, “Ain’t love grand?”
“I’m not going to say a single word,” I said. It was none of my business. It would just take me a little while to get used to a “nice” Saied, that’s all.
“Marîd,” Yasmin said, “don’t look now, but here come the Bucket-of-Mud Girls.”
“Who?” Mahmoud asked.
“As in ‘dumb as a bucket of mud,’” Lily explained.
“We’re back!” It was the triumphant return of Baby and Kitty, staggering drunkenly on either side of an obese bearded black man wearing a blue robe and sandals. He had a carefully trimmed beard, eyes like anthracite chips, and a small, bemused smile on his lips. There was something wrong with this picture. He didn’t look like he belonged in Chiriga’s, and he didn’t look like he belonged with Baby and Kitty, either.
They walked a crooked line to one of the booths in the back, near the rest rooms. As they passed me, I said softly, “Where’d you find this guy?”
Baby laughed. “We were in Frenchy’s, and he was buying bottles. He wanted to see Chiri’s. We told him we’d rather stay in Frenchy’s, but he wanted to see Chiri’s.” Baby shrugged. “So here we are. See if he wants to buy us another bottle.”
They squeezed into the booth, all three of them on one side. It looked like Kitty was getting crushed on the inside, but I didn’t hear her complain. “Would you like to buy these young ladies a drink, sir?” I asked.
“Whatever they want,” he said. His voice was low and solemn. He wasn’t drunk.
“A bottle!” Baby said.
I glanced at the man. Bottles went for a hundred sixty kiam. If he was looking for sex, he could get it a lot cheaper almost anywhere else in the Budayeen. I didn’t think he was looking for sex. I didn’t know what his angle was, or even if he had an angle.
“A bottle,” he said. “And for me, just coffee, please.”
I nodded. We didn’t have coffee in the club, but if the gentleman was going to spill cash for a bottle, I could send out for his coffee.
“See?” Baby said. “What did I tell you?”
“I don’t remember what you told me,” I said.
“You asked me before why we don’t like to dance when it’s our turn. Where we worked before, our boss told us that there were like two kinds of girls in these clubs. There are front-room girls and back-room girls. We’re like back-room girls.”
I mulled that one over for a few seconds. “Baby,” I said at last, “how long have you worked for me?”
She looked puzzled. “A couple of weeks, I think. How come?”
“In that couple of weeks, haven’t you noticed that we don’t have a back room?”
“You don’t?” She looked across the heavyset mark at Kitty, who seemed even more bewildered.
“Just take it easy,” I said. “I’ll have Rocky bring your bottle.”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Boss!” Baby called after me. Okay, let her think it was my birthday. Close enough.
I headed back toward the front of the club, and I saw Chiri come in. That cheered me up, because she was sensible enough to cancel out Baby and Kitty, with the Half-Hajj thrown in. “Hey, Chiri,” I said.
“Say, Bwana. I was expecting more of an actual party, you know what I mean? It’s too quiet in here. Play some music, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know. I kind of like it like this. I get real tired of hearing the same songs all day.”
Chiri nodded. “I brought some different stuff from home. You mind if I play it?”
I shrugged. “Hey, the club’s half yours, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, giving me a smile with absolutely no humor in it. “Half of it.”
“You missed Kmuzu. He and Indihar came in a little while ago. They brought all that food.”
“Choo,” Chiri said. “I wish I’d known they were passing by. They didn’t stay very long, did they?”
I shook my head. “You might’ve been able to talk them into hanging around.”
“I sure as hell would’ve tried with Kmuzu,” she said. “Nothing against Indihar, of course.” She went toward the club’s holo system. For the rest of the night we’d all learn more about Chiri’s taste in music.
About the time her first selection started playing — it was one of those goddamn Sikh propaganda songs, and Chiri knows how much I hate them — I decided it was time to grab myself a few pot stickers. I took a paper plate, plopped six fried dumplings on it, and spooned on the black soy sauce and vinegar combination that Martyrs of Democracy had packaged in a plastic cup. I closed my eyes and murmured “Bismillah” — in the name of God; then I gulped down all six of the pot stickers and took six more. Even though the dumplings had cooled a little by now, they were still great. I told myself I should savor them more slowly. I didn’t.