George Effinger - When Gravity Fails

“Fuad said you had something to tell me from Papa.”

Hassan’s face grew serious. “That is only what I told Fuad. I tell you this from myself . I am worried, O Maghrebi. I am more than worried — I am terrified. I have not slept soundly for four nights, and when I do nap, I have the most horrible dreams. I thought nothing could be worse than when I found Abdoulaye … when I found him … ” His voice faltered. “Abdoulaye was not a good man, we both know that; yet he and I were closely associated for a number of years. You know that I employed him, even as Friedlander Bey employs me. Now I have been warned by Friedlander Bey that—” Hassan’s voice broke and he was unable to say anything for a moment. I was afraid that I would have to watch this bloated pig go to pieces right in front of me. The idea of patting his hand and saying “There, there,” was absolutely loathsome. He got himself collected, though, and went on. “Friedlander Bey warned me that more of his friends may yet be in danger. That includes you, O clever one, and myself as well. I am sure you understood the risks weeks ago, but I am not a brave man. Friedlander Bey did not choose me to perform your task because he knows I have no courage, no inner resources, no honor. I must be harsh with myself, because now I can see the truth. I have no honor . I think only of myself, of the danger that may confront me, of the possibility that I may suffer and end up just as—” At that point Hassan did break down. He wept. I waited patiently for the shower to pass; slowly the clouds parted, but even then no sun glimmered through.

“I’m taking my own precautions, Hassan. We all should take precautions. Those who’ve been killed died because they were foolish or too trusting, which is the same thing.”

“I trust no one,” said Hassan.

“I know. That may keep you alive, if anything will.”

“How reassuring,” he said dubiously. I don’t know what he wanted — a written promise that I would guarantee his scabrous, pitiful little life?

“You’ll be all right, Hassan; but if you’re so afraid, why not ask Papa for asylum until these killers are caught?”

“Then you think there are more than one?”

“I know it.”

“That makes it all twice as bad.” He struck his chest with his fist several times, appealing to Allah for justice: what had Hassan ever done to deserve this? “What will you do?” the plump, fat-faced merchant said.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

Hassan nodded thoughtfully. “Then may Allah protect you,” he said.

“Peace be upon you, Hassan,” I said.

“And upon you be peace. Take with you this gift from Friedlander Bey.” The “gift” was another envelope thick with crisp currency.

I went back out through the cloth hanging and the bare shop without giving Abdul-Hassan a glance. I decided to stop in to see Chiri, to give her a warning and some advice; I also wanted to hide out there for half an hour and forget that I was running for my life.

Chiriga greeted me with her characteristic enthusiasm. “ Habari gani !” she cried, the Swahili equivalent of “What’s up?” Then she narrowed her eyes when she saw my implants. “I heard, but I was waiting to see you before I believed. Two?”

“Two,” I admitted.

She shrugged. “Possibilities,” she murmured. I wondered what she was thinking. Chiri was always a couple of steps ahead of me when it came to figuring out ways to pervert and corrupt the best-intentioned of legal institutions.

“How’ve you been?” I asked.

“All right, I guess. No money, nothing happening, same old goddamn boring job.” She showed me her sharpened teeth to let me know that while the club might not be making money and the girls and changes weren’t making money, Chiri was making money. And she wasn’t bored, either.

“Well,” I said, “we’re all going to have to work to keep it all right.”

She frowned. “Because of the, uh … ” She waved a hand in a little circle.

I waved a hand in a little circle, too. “Yeah, because of the ‘uh.’ Nobody but me wants to believe these killings aren’t over and that just about everybody we know is a possible slabsitter.”

“Yeah, you right, Marîd,” said Chiri in a soft voice. “What the hell you think I should do?”

She had me there. As soon as I talked her into agreeing, she next wanted me to explain the logic the assassins were using. Hell, I’d wasted a lot of time running up and down looking for that, too. Anybody could get bumped, anytime, for any reason. Now when Chiriga asked for practical advice, all I could say was “Be careful.” It looked like you had two choices: you went about things just the same but with more eyes open, or you could go live on another continent just to be on the safe side. The latter is assuming you didn’t pick the wrong continent and walk right into the heart of the matter, or let it follow along with you.

So I shrugged and told her it looked like a gin and bingara kind of afternoon. She poured herself a big drink, poured me a double on the house, and we sat around and looked into each other’s unhappy eyes for a while. No kidding, no flirting, no mentioning the Honey Pílar moddy. I didn’t even look at her new girls, and Chiri and I were huddled together too closely for the others to barge in and say hello. When I killed my drink I took a glass of her tende — it was starting to taste better. The first time I’d tried it, it was like I’d bitten into the side of some animal that had died under a log a week ago. I stood up to go, but then some true tenderness that I wasn’t quick enough to hide made me touch Chiri’s scarred cheek and pat her hand. She flashed me a smile that was almost back to full strength. I got out of there before we both decided to retire to Free Kurdistan or somewhere.

Back at my apartment, Yasmin was working on being late to work. She had got up early that morning to drop her pain and suffering on me, so to get to Frenchy’s late she just about had to go back to sleep and start all over again. She gave me a drowsy smile from the mattress. “Hi,” she said in a small voice. I think she and the Half-Hajj were the only people in the city who weren’t completely terrified. Saied had his moddy to simulate courage, but Yasmin just had me. She was absolutely confident that I was going to protect her. That made her even dumber than Saied.

“Yasmin, look, I got a million things to do, and you’re going to have to stay at your own place for a few days, okay?”

She looked hurt again. “You don’t want me around?” Meaning: you got somebody else now?

“I don’t want you around because I’m a big, shiny target now. This apartment is going to be too dangerous for anybody. I don’t want you getting into the line of fire, understand?” She liked that better; it meant I still cared for her, the dizzy bitch. You have to keep telling them that every ten minutes or they think you’re sneaking out the back.

“Okay, Marîd. You want your keys back?”

I thought about that a second. “Yeah. That way I know where they are, I know somebody won’t lift them from you to get into my place.” She took them out of her purse and tossed them toward me. I scooped them up. She made going-to-work motions, and I told her twenty or thirty times that I loved her, that I’d be extra crafty and sly, and that I’d call her a couple times a day just to check in. She kissed me, took a quick glance at the time and gave a phony gasp, and hurried out the door. She’d have to pay Frenchy his big fifty again today.

As soon as Yasmin was gone, I started putting together what I had, and I soon saw how little that was. I didn’t want either of the freezers to pop me in my own house, so I needed a place to stay until I felt safe again. For the same reason, I wanted to look different on the street. I still had a lot of Papa’s money in my bank account, and the cash I’d just gotten from Hassan would let me move around with a little freedom and security. It never took me long to pack. I stuffed some things into a black nylon zipper bag, wrapped my case of special daddies in a T-shirt and put it on top, then zipped the bag and left my apartment. When I hit the sidewalk, I wondered if Allah would be pleased to let me come back to this place. I knew I was just worrying myself for no good reason, the way you keep pushing at a sore tooth. Jesus, what a nuisance it was, being desperate to stay alive.