George Effinger - A Fire in the Sun

I sighed. “Please no,” I muttered. That Jirji, he was some kidder.

Twenty minutes later we were in a middle-class district of two-and three-story houses. The streets were broader than in the Budayeen, and the whitewashed buildings had strips of open land around them, planted with small bushes and flowering shrubs. Tall date palms leaned drunkenly along the verges of the pavement. The neighborhood seemed deserted, if only because there were no shouting children wrestling on the sidewalks or chasing each other around the corners of the houses. It was a very settled, very sedate part of town. It was so peaceful, it made me uncomfortable.

“Courane’s is just up here,” said Shaknahyi. He turned into a poorer street that was little more than an alley. One side was hemmed in by the back walls of the same flat-roofed houses. There were small balconies on the second floor, and bright lamp-lit windows obscured by lattices made of narrow wooden strips. On the other side of the alley were boarded-up buildings and a few businesses: a leatherworker’s shop, a bakery, a restaurant that specialized in bean dishes, a bookstall.

There was also Courane’s, out of place in that constricted avenue. The proprietor had set out a few tables, but no one lingered in the white-painted wicker chairs beneath these Cinzano umbrellas. Shaknahyi tapped off the engine, and we got out of the patrol car. I supposed that Chiri hadn’t arrived yet, or that she was waiting for me inside. My stomach hurt.

“Officer Shaknahyi!” A middle-aged man came toward us, a welcoming smile on his face. He was about my height, maybe fifteen or twenty pounds heavier, with receding brown hair brushed straight back. He shook hands with Shaknahyi, then turned to me.

“Sandor,” said Shaknahyi, “this is my partner, Marid Audran.”

“Glad to meet you,” said Courane.

“May Allah increase your honor,” I said.

Courane’s look was amused. “Right,” he said. “Can I get you boys something to drink?”

I glanced at Shaknahyi. “Are we on duty?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. I asked for my usual, and Shaknahyi got a soft drink. We followed Courane into his establishment. It was just as I’d pictured it: shiny chrome and glass tables, white wicker chairs, a beautiful antique bar of polished dark wood, chrome ceiling fans, and, as Shaknahyi had mentioned, lots of dusty artificial plants stuck in corners and hanging in baskets from the ceiling.

Chiriga was sitting at a table near the back. “Where you at, Jirji? Marid?” she said.

“Aw right,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Never in my life turned one down.” She held up her glass. “Sandy?” Courane nodded and went to make our drinks.

I sat down beside Chiri. “Anyway,” I said uncomfortably, “I want to talk to you about coming to work in the club.”

“Yasmin mentioned something about that,” Chiri said. “Kind of a ballsy thing for you to ask, isn’t it?”

“Hey, look, I told you what the situation was. How much longer you gonna keep this up?”

Chiri gave me a little smile. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m getting a big kick out of it.”

I’d reached my limit. I can only feel so guilty. “Fine,” I said. “Go get another job someplace else. I’m sure a big, strong kaffir like you won’t have any trouble at all finding somebody who’s interested.”

Chiri looked hurt. “Okay, Marid,” she said softly, “let’s stop.” She opened her bag and took out a long white envelope, and pushed it across the table toward me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Yesterday’s take from your goddamn club. You’re supposed to show up around closing time, you know, to count out the register and pay the girls. Or don’t you care?”

“I don’t really care,” I said, peeking at the cash. There was a lot of money in the envelope. “That’s why I want to hire you.”

“To do what?”

I spread my hands. “I want you to keep the girls in line. And I need you to separate the customers from their money. You’re famous for that. Just do exactly what you used to.”

Her brow furrowed. “I used to go home every night with all of this.” She tapped the envelope. “Now I’m just gonna get a few kiam here and there, whatever you decide to spill. I don’t like that.”

Courane arrived with our drinks and I paid for them. “I was gonna offer you a lot more than what the debs and changes get,” I said to Chiri.

“I should hope so.” She nodded her head emphatically. “Bet your ass, honey, you want me to run your club for you, you’re gonna have to pay up front. Business is business, and action is action. I want 50 percent.”

“Making yourself a partner?” I’d expected something like that. Chiri smiled slowly, showing those long, filed canines. She was worth more than 50 percent to me. “All right,” I said.

She looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected me to give in so easily. “Should’ve asked for more,” she said bitterly. “And I don’t want to dance unless I feel like it.”

“Fine.”

“And the name of the club stays ‘Chiriga’s.’ ”

“All right.”

“And you let me do my own hiring and firing. I don’t want to get stuck with Floor-Show Fanya if she tickles you into giving her a job. Bitch gets so loaded, she throws up on customers.”

“You expect a hell of a lot, Chiri.”

She gave me a wolfish grin. “Paybacks are a bitch, ain’t they?” she said.

Chiri was wringing every last bit of advantage out of this situation. “Okay, you pick your own crew.”

She paused to drink again. “By the way,” she said, “that’s 50 percent of the gross I’m getting, isn’t it?”

Chiri was terrific. “Uh yeah,” I said, laughing. “Why don’t you let me give you a ride back to the Budayeen? You can start working this afternoon.”

“I already passed by there. I left Indihar in charge.”

She noticed that her glass was empty again, and she held it up and waved it at Courane. “Want to play a game, Marid?” She jerked a thumb toward the back of the bar, where Courane had a Transpex unit.

It’s a game that lets two people with corymbic implants sit across from each other and chip into the machine’s CPU. The first player imagines a bizarre scenario in detail, and it becomes a wholly realistic environment for the second player, who’s scored on how well he adapts — or survives. Then in turn the second player does the same for the first.

It’s a great game to bet money on. It scared the hell out of me at first, though, because while you’re playing, you forget it’s only a game. It seems absolutely real. The players exercise almost godlike power on each other. Courane’s model looked old, a version whose safety features could be bypassed by a clever mechanic. There were rumors of people actually having massive strokes and coronaries while they were chipped into a jiggered Transpex.

“Go ahead, Audran,” said Shaknahyi, “let’s see what you got.”

“All right, Chiri,” I said, “let’s play.”

She stood up and walked back to the Transpex booth. I followed her, and both Shaknahyi and Courane came along too. “Want to bet the other 50 percent of my club?” she said. Her eyes glittered over the rim of her cocktail glass.

“Can’t do that. Papa wouldn’t approve.” I felt pretty confident, because I could read the record of the machine’s previous high games. A perfect Transpex score was 1,000 points, and I averaged in the upper 800s. The top scores on this machine were in the lower 700s. Maybe the scores were low because Courane’s bar didn’t attract many borderline nutso types. Like me. “I’ll bet what’s inside this envelope, though.”

That sounded good to her. “I can cover it,” she said. I didn’t doubt that Chiri could lay her hands on quite a lot of cash when she needed it.