George Effinger - When Gravity Fails

After Blanca, a real girl called Indihar came on stage; it might even have been her real name. She moved the same as Blanca, hips and shoulders swaying, feet almost motionless. As she danced, Indihar mouthed the words to the songs silently, completely unaware that she was doing it. I asked a few girls about that; they all mouthed the lyrics, but none of them realized they did it. They all got self-conscious when I mentioned the fact, but the next time they got up to dance, they sang to themselves just as they always had. Made the time go quicker, I guess, gave them something to do besides look at the customers. Back and forth the girls swayed, their lips moving, their hands making empty gestures, their hips swirling where habit told them to swirl their hips. It might have been sexy to some of the men who’d never seen such things before, it might have been worth what Frenchy charged for his drinks. I could drink for free because Yasmin worked there and because I kept Frenchy amused; if I’d had to pay, I would have found something more interesting to do with my time. Anything would have been more interesting; sitting alone in the dark in a soundless room would have been more interesting.

I waited through Indihar’s set, and then Yasmin came out of the dressing room. She gave me a wide smile that made me feel special. There was some applause from two or three men scattered along the bar: she was mixing well tonight, making money. Indihar threw on a gauzy top and started hitting up the customers for tips. I kicked in a kiam and she gave me a little kiss. Indihar’s a good kid. She plays by the rules and doesn’t hassle anybody. Blanca could go to hell, as far as I was concerned, but Indihar and I could be good friends.

Frenchy caught my eye and motioned me down to the end of the bar. He was a big man, about the size of two average Marseilles enforcers, with a big, black, bushy beard that made mine look like the fuzz in a cat’s ear. He glowered at me with his black eyes. “Where ya at, cap?” he asked.

“Nothing happening tonight, Frenchy,” I said.

“Your girl’s doing all right for herself.”

“That’s good,” I said, “because I lost my last fiq through a hole in my pocket.”

Frenchy squinted and looked at my gallebeya . “You don’t have any pockets in that outfit, mon noraf .”

“That was days ago, Frenchy,” I said solemnly. “We’ve been living on love since.” Yasmin had some orbital-velocity moddy chipped in, and her dancing was something to watch. People all up and down the bar forgot their drinks and the other girls’ hands in their laps, and stared at Yasmin.

Frenchy laughed; he knew that I was never as flat-out broke as I always claimed to be. “Business is bad,” he said, spitting into a small plastic cup. With Frenchy, business is always bad. Nobody ever talks prosperity on the Street; it’s bad luck.

“Listen,” I said, “there’s some important thing I have to talk over with Yasmin when she’s finished this set.”

Frenchy shook his head. “She’s working on that mark down there wearing the fez. Wait until she milks him dry, then you can talk to her all you want. If you wait until the mark leaves, I’ll get someone else to take her next turn on stage.”

“Allah be praised,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

He smiled at me. “Buy two,” he said. “Pretend one’s for me, one’s for you. Drink them both. I can’t stomach the stuff anymore.” He patted his belly and made a sour face, then got up and walked down the bar, greeting his customers and whispering in the ears of his girls. I bought two drinks from Dalia, Frenchy’s short, round-faced, informative barmaid; I’d known Dalia for years. Dalia, Frenchy, and Chiriga were very likely fixtures on the Street when the Street was just a goatpath from one end of the Budayeen to the other. Before the rest of the city decided to wall us in, probably, and put in the cemetery.

When Yasmin finished dancing, the applause was loud and long. Her tip jar filled quickly, and then she was hurrying back to her enamored mark before some other bitch stole him away. Yasmin gave me a quick, affectionate pinch on the ass as she passed behind me.

I watched her laughing and talking and hugging that cross-eyed bastard son of a yellow dog for half an hour; then his money ran out, and both he and Yasmin looked sad. Their affair had come to a premature end. They waved fond, almost passionate farewells and promised they’d never forget this golden evening. Every time I see one of those goddamn wogs climbing all over Yasmin — or any of the other girls, for that matter — I remember watching nameless men grabbing at my mother. That was a hell of a long time ago, but for certain things my memory works just too well. I watched Yasmin and I told myself it was just her job; but I couldn’t help the sick, acid feeling that climbed out of my gut and made me want to start breaking things.

She scooted down beside me, drenched with perspiration, and gasped, “I thought that son of a slut would never leave!”

“It’s your charming presence,” I said sourly. “It’s your scintillating conversation. It’s Frenchy’s needled beer.”

“Yeah,” said Yasmin, puzzled by my annoyance, “you right.”

“I have to talk to you about something.”

Yasmin looked at me and took a few deep breaths. She mopped her face with a clean bar towel. I suppose I sounded unusually grave. Anyway, I went through the events of the evening for her: my second meeting with Friedlander Bey; our — that is, his — conclusions; and how I had failed to impress Lieutenant Okking. When I finished, there was stunned silence from all around.

“You’re going to do it?” asked Frenchy. I hadn’t noticed him returning. I wasn’t aware that he’d been eavesdropping, but it was his place and nobody knew his eaves better.

“You’re going to get wired ?” asked Yasmin breathlessly. She found the whole idea vastly exciting. Arousing , if you get my meaning.

“You’re crazy if you do,” said Dalia. Dalia was as close to being a true conservative as you could find on the Street. “Look what it does to people.”

“What does it do to people?” shouted Yasmin, outraged, tapping her own moddy.

“Oops, sorry,” said Dalia, and she went to mop up some imaginary spilled beer at the far, far end of the bar.

“Think of all the things we could do together,” said Yasmin dreamily.

“Maybe it’s not good enough for you the way it is,” I said, a little hurt.

Her expression fell. “Hey, Marîd, it’s not that. It’s just—”

“This is your problem,” said Frenchy, “it’s none of my business. I’m going in the back and count tonight’s money. Won’t take me very long.” He disappeared through a ratty gold-colored cloth that served as a flimsy barrier to the dressing room and his office.

“It’s permanent,” I said. “Once it’s done, it’s done. There’s no backing out.”

“Have you ever heard me say that I wanted to have my wires yanked?” asked Yasmin.

“No,” I admitted. It was just the irrevocableness of it that prickled my skin.

“I haven’t regretted it for an instant, and neither has anybody else I know who’s had it done.”

I wet my lips. “You don’t understand,” I said. I couldn’t finish my argument; I couldn’t put into words what she didn’t understand.

“You’re just afraid,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. That was a good starting point.

“The Half-Hajj has his brain wired, and he’s not even a quarter of the man you are.”

“And all it got him was Sonny’s blood all over everything. I don’t need moddies to make me act crazy, I can do that on my own.”