Budayeen Nights (8 page)

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.

Friedlander Bey wanted to divorce me from all my connections to the Budayeen. Making me a cop had been a great start, but even so I still had a few loyal friends. Forcing Chiri to sell her club had been another brilliant stroke. Soon I’d be just as lonely and friendless as Papa himself, except I wouldn’t have the consolation of his wealth and power.

“Look,” I said, “this is all a mistake. I got to settle this with Chiri. Indihar, take charge, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Indihar just gave me a disdainful look. She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t stand to be in there another minute. I grabbed the keys Chiri’d dropped on the bar and I went outside. She wasn’t anywhere in sight on the Street. She might have gone straight home, but she’d probably gone to another club. In a way, I was relieved that I hadn’t found her, but I knew that there were surely more ugly scenes to come.

The next morning I left my car on the Boulevard and walked from there to Laila’s modshop on Fourth Street. Laila’s was small, but it had character, crammed between a dark, grim gambling den and a noisy bar that catered to teenage sexchanges. The moddies and daddies in Laila’s bins were covered with dust and fine grit, and generations of small insects had met their Maker among her wares. It wasn’t pretty, but what you got from her most of the time was good old honest value. The rest of the time you got damaged, worthless, even dangerous merchandise. You always felt a little rush of adrenalin before you chipped one of Laila’s ancient and shopworn moddies directly into your brain.

She was always—
always
—chipped in, and she never stopped whining. She whined hello, she whined goodbye, she whined in pleasure and in pain. When she prayed, she whined to Allah. She had dry black skin as wrinkled as a raisin, and straggly white hair. Laila was not someone I liked to spend a lot of time with. She was wearing a moddy this morning, of course, but I couldn’t tell yet which one. Sometimes she was a famous Eur-Am film or holo star, or a character from a forgotten novel, or Honey Pilar herself. Whoever she was, she’d yammer. That was all I could count on.

“How you doing, Laila?” I said. There was the acrid bite of ammonia in her shop that morning. She was squirting some ugly pink liquid from a plastic bottle up into the corners of the room. Don’t ask me why.

She glanced at me and gave me a slow, rapturous smile. It was the look you get only from complete sexual satisfaction or from a large dose of Sonneine. “Marîd,” she said serenely. She still whined, but now it was a serene whine.

“Got to go out on patrol today, and I thought you might have—“

“Marîd, a young girl came to me this morning and said, ‘Mother, the eyes of the narcissus are open, and the cheeks of the roses are red with blushing! Why don’t you come outside and see how beautifully Nature has adorned the world!’ “

“Laila, if you’ll just give me a minute—“

“And I said to her, ‘Daughter, that which delights you will fade in an hour, and what profit will you then have in it? Instead, come inside and find with me the far greater beauty of Allah, who created the spring.’” Laila finished her little homily and looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for me either to applaud or collapse from enlightenment.

I’d forgotten religious ecstasy. Sex, drugs, and religious ecstasy. Those were the big sellers in Laila’s shop, and she tested them all out personally. You had her personal Seal of Approval on every moddy.

“Can I talk now, Laila?”

She stared at me, swaying unsteadily. Slowly she reached one scrawny arm up and popped the moddy out. She blinked a couple of times, and her gentle smile disappeared. “Get you something, Marîd?” she said in her shrill voice.

Laila had been around so long, there was a rumor that as a child she’d watched the imams lay the foundation of the Budayeen’s walls. But she knew her moddies. She knew more about old, out-of-print moddies than anyone else I’ve ever met. I think Laila must have had one of the world’s first experimental implants, because her brain had never worked quite right afterward. And the way she still abused the technology, she should have burnt out her last gray cells years ago. She’d withstood cerebral torture that would have turned anyone else into a drooling zombie. Laila probably had a tough protective callus on her brain that prevented anything from penetrating. Anything at all.

I started over from the beginning. “I’m going out on patrol today, and I was wondering if you had a basic cop moddy.”

“Sure, I got everything.” She hobbled to a bin near the back of the store and dug around in it for a moment. The bin was marked “Prussia/Poland/Breulandy.” That didn’t have anything to do with which moddies were actually in there; Laila’d bought the battered dividers and scuffed labels from some other kind of shop that was going out of business.

She straightened up after a few seconds, holding a shrink-wrapped moddy in her hand. “This is what you want,” she said.

It was the pale blue Complete Guardian moddy I’d seen other rookie cops wearing. It was a good, basic piece of procedure programming that covered almost every conceivable situation. I figured that between the Half-Hajj’s mean-mother moddy and the Guardian, I was covered. I wasn’t in a position to turn down any kind of help, friend or fantasy. For someone who once hated the idea of having his skull amped, I was sure building up a good collection of other people’s psyches. I paid Laila for Complete Guardian and put it in my pocket.

She gave me that tranquil smile. It was toothless, of course, and it made me shiver. “Go in safety,” she said in her nasal wail.

“Peace be upon you.” I hurried out of her shop, walked back down the Street, and passed through the gate to where the car was parked. It wasn’t far from there to the station house. I worked at my desk for a little while until Officer Shaknahyi ducked his head into my cubicle. “Time to roll,” he said.

It didn’t bother me in the least to tell my data deck to quit. I followed Shaknahyi downstairs to the garage. “That’s mine,” he said, pointing to a patrol car coming in from the previous shift. He greeted the two tired-looking cops who got out, then slid behind the steering wheel. “Well?” he said, looking up at me.

I wasn’t in a hurry to start this. In the first place, I’d be stuck in the narrow confines of the cop car with Shaknahyi for the duration of the shift, and that prospect didn’t excite me at all. Second, I’d really rather sit upstairs and read boring files in perfect safety than follow this battle-hardened veteran out into the mean streets. Finally, though, I climbed into the front seat. Sometimes there’s only so much stalling you can do. He looked straight out the windshield while he drove.

We cruised around the streets of the city for about an hour. Then, suddenly, a shrill alarm went off, and the synthesized voice of the patrol car’s comp deck crackled. “Badge Number 374, respond immediately to bomb threat and hostage situation, Cafe de la Fee Blanche, Ninth Street North.”

“Gargotier’s place,” said Shaknahyi. “We’ll take care of it.” The comp deck fell silent.

And Haj jar had promised me I wouldn’t have to worry about anything like this. “Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem,” I murmured. In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful.

5

A crowd had gathered outside the low railing of the Cafe de la Fee Blanche’s patio. “Get these people out of here,” Shaknahyi growled at me. “I don’t know what’s happening in there, but we got to treat it like the guy has a real bomb. And when you got everybody moved back, go sit in the car.”

“But-“

“I don’t want to have to worry about you, too.” He ran around the corner of the cafe to the north, heading for the building’s rear entrance.

I hesitated. I knew backup units would be getting here soon, and I decided to let them handle the crowd control. At the moment, there were more important things to worry about. I still had Complete Guardian, and I tore open the shrink-wrap with my teeth. Then I chipped the moddy in.

Audran was sitting at a table in the dimly lighted San Saberio salon in Florence, listening to a group of musicians playing a demure Schubert quartet. Across from him sat a beautiful blonde woman named Costanzia. She raised a cup to her lips, and her china-blue eyes looked at him over the rim. She was wearing a subtle, fascinating fragrance that made Audran think of romantic evenings and soft-spoken promises.

“This must be the best coffee in Tuscany,” she murmured. Her voice was sweet and gentle. She gave him a warm smile.

“We didn’t come here to drink coffee, my darling,” he said. “We came here to see the season’s new styles.”

She waved a hand. “There is time enough for that. For now, let’s just relax.”

Audran smiled fondly at her and picked up his delicate cup. The coffee was the beautiful color of polished mahogany, and the wisps of steam that rose from it carried a heavenly, enticing aroma. The first taste overwhelmed Audran with its richness. As the coffee, hot and wonderfully delicious, went down his throat, he realized that Costanzia had been perfectly correct. He had never before been so satisfied by a cup of coffee.

“I’ll always remember this coffee,” he said.

“Let’s come back here again next year, darling,” said Costanzia.

Audran laughed indulgently. “For San Saberio’s new fashions?”

Costanzia lifted her cup and smiled. “For the coffee,” she said.

After the advertisement, there was a blackout during which Audran couldn’t see a thing. He wondered briefly who Costanzia was, but he put her out of his mind. }ust as he began to panic, his vision cleared. He felt a ripple of dizziness, and then it was as if he’d awakened from a dream. He was rational and cool and he had a job to do. He had become the Complete Guardian.

He couldn’t see or hear anything that was happening inside. He assumed that Shaknahyi was making his way quietly through the cafe’s back room. It was up to Audran to give his partner as much support as possible. He jumped the iron railing into the patio, then walked decisively into the interior of the bar.

The scene inside didn’t look very threatening. Monsieur Gargotier was standing behind the bar, beneath the huge, cracked mirror. His daughter, Maddie, was sitting at a table near the back wall. A young man sat at a table against the west wall, under Gargotier’s collection of faded prints of the Mars colony. The young man’s hands rested on a small box. His head swung to look at Audran. “Get the fuck out,” he shouted, “or this whole place goes up in a big bright bang!”

“I’m sure he means it, monsieur,” said Gargotier. He sounded terrified.