George Effinger - A Fire in the Sun

Friedlander Bey put a hand on my arm. “I thank you, my son, but I’ve invited her to meet with us.”

I looked at him, my mouth open, but no intelligent reply occurred to me. If Papa wanted to initiate major revolutions in attitude and behavior at this late date, that was his right. I closed my mouth and nodded.

“Umm Saad will have her dinner in her apartment after our discussion,” Friedlander Bey said, giving her a stern look. “Her son may then retire with her or remain with the men, as he wishes.”

Umm Saad looked impatient. “I suppose I must be grateful for whatever time you can spare me,” she said.

Papa went to his chair, and the Stone assisted him. Kmuzu showed me to my seat across the table from Fried-lander Bey. Umm Saad sat on his left, and her son sat on Papa’s right. “Marid,” said Papa, “have you met the young man?”

“No,” I said. I hadn’t even seen him before. He and his mother were keeping a very low profile in that house. The boy was tall for his age, but slender and melancholy. His skin had an unnatural yellowish tint, and the whites of his eyes were discolored. He looked unhealthy. He was dressed in a dark blue gallebeya with a geometric print, and he wore the turban of a young shaykh — not a tribal leader, but the honorary turban of a youth who has committed the entire Qur’an to memory.

“Yaa Sidi, “said the woman, “may I present to you my handsome son, Saad ben Salah?”

“May your honor be increased, sir,” said the boy.

I raised my eyebrows. At least the kid had manners. “Allah be gracious to you,” I said.

“Umm Saad,” said Friedlander Bey in a gruff voice, “you have come into my house and made extravagant claims. My patience is at an end. Out of respect for the way of hospitality I have suffered your presence, but now my conscience is clear. I demand that you trouble me no more. You must be out of my house by the call to prayer tomorrow morning. I will instruct my servants to give you any assistance you require.”

Umm Saad gave him a little smile, as if she found his anger amusing. “I don’t believe you’ve given sufficient thought to our problem. And you’ve made no provision for the future of your grandson.” She covered Saad’s hand with her own.

That was like a slap across the face. She was claiming to be Friedlander Bey’s daughter or daughter-in-law. It explained why he wanted me to get rid of her, instead of doing it himself.

He looked at me. “My nephew,” he said, “this woman is not my daughter, and the boy is no kin of mine. This is not the first time a stranger has come to my door claiming blood ties, in the hope of stealing some of my hard-won fortune.” Jeez, I should have taken care of her when he first asked me, before he dragged me into all this intrigue. Someday I’m going to learn to deal with things before they get too complicated. I don’t mean that I really would have murdered her, but I might have had a chance to cajole or threaten or bribe her to leave us in peace. I could tell that it was too late now. She wasn’t going to accept a settlement; she wanted the ball of wax whole, without any little chunks missing.

“You are certain, O Shaykh?” I said. “That she’s not your daughter, I mean?”

For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. Then in a tightly controlled voice he said, “I swear it to you upon the life of the Messenger of God, may blessings be upon him and peace.”

That was good enough for me. Friedlander Bey isn’t above a little manipulation if it furthers his purposes, but he doesn’t swear false oaths. We get along so well partly because he doesn’t lie and I don’t lie. I looked at Umm Saad. “What proof do you have of your claim?” I said.

Her eyes grew wider. “Proof?” she cried. “Do I need proof to embrace my own father? What proof do you have of your father’s identity?”

She couldn’t have known what a touchy subject that was. I ignored the remark. “Papa—” I stopped myself. “The master of the house has shown you courtesy and kindness. Now he properly requests that you bring your visit to an end. As he said, you may have the help of any of the servants of the house in your departure.” I turned to the Stone That Speaks, and his head nodded once. He’d make sure that Umm Saad and her son would be out on the doorstep by the last syllable of the muezzin’s morning call.

“Then we have preparations to make,” she said, standing. “Come, Saad.” And the two of them left the small dining room with as much dignity as if it were their own palace and they the aggrieved party.

Friedlander Bey’s hands were pressed flat on the table in front of him. His knuckles were white. He took two or three deep, deliberate breaths. “What do you propose to do, to end this annoyance?” he said.

I looked up, from Kmuzu to the Stone That Speaks. Neither slave seemed to show the least interest in the matter. “Let me understand something first, O Shaykh,” I said. “You want to be rid of her and her son. Is it essential that she die? What if I take another, less violent way to discourage her?”

“You saw her and heard her words. Nothing short of violence will bring her scheme to an end. And further — only her death will discourage other leeches from trying the same strategy. Why do you hesitate, my son? The answer is simple and effective. You’ve killed before. Killing again should not be so difficult. You need not even make it seem accidental. Sergeant Hajjar will understand. He will not proceed with an investigation.”

“Hajjar is a lieutenant now,” I said.

Papa waved impatiently. “Yes, of course.”

“You think Hajjar will overlook a homicide?” Hajjar was bought off, but that didn’t mean he’d sit still while I made him look like a fool. I could get away with a lot now, but only if I was careful to preserve Hajjar’s public image.

The old man’s brow creased. “My son,” he said slowly so I wouldn’t misunderstand, “if Lieutenant Hajjar balks, he too can be removed. Perhaps you will have better luck with his successor. You can continue this process until the office is filled at last with a police supervisor of sufficient imagination and wit.”

“Allah guide you and me,” I murmured. Friedlander Bey was pretty damn casual these days about off-bumping as a solution to life’s little setbacks. I was struck again by the fact that Papa himself was in no rush to pull any triggers himself. He had learned at an early age to delegate responsibility. And I had become his favorite delegatee.

“Dinner?” he asked.

I’d lost my appetite. “I pray that you’ll forgive me,” I said. “I have a lot of planning to do. Maybe after your meal, you’ll answer some questions. I’d like to hear what you know about Reda Abu Adil.”

Friedlander Bey spread his hands. “I don’t imagine that I know much more than you,” he said.

Now, hadn’t Papa twisted Hajjar’s arm to start an official investigation? So why was he playing dumb now? Or was this just another test? How many goddamn tests did I have to pass?

Or maybe — and this made it all real interesting — maybe Hajjar’s curiosity about Abu Adil didn’t come from Papa, after all. Maybe Hajjar had sold himself more than once: to Friedlander Bey, and also to the second-highest bidder, and to the third-highest, and to the fourth…

I remembered when I was a hot-blooded fifteen-year-old. I promised my girlfriend, Nafissa, that I wouldn’t even look at another girl. And I made the same pledge to Fayza, whose tits were bigger. And to Hanuna, whose father worked in the brewery. Everything was just fine until Nafissa found out about Hanuna, and Fayza’s father found out about both of the others. The girls would have cut my balls off and scratched out my eyes. Instead, I slipped out of Algiers while the enemy slept, and so began the odyssey that brought me to this city.