Budayeen Nights by George Alec Effinger Page B

kick the remnants out of my patrol car.”
    So much for Martd Audran, Ideal Law Enforcement Officer.
    I stood up feeling a lot better, and followed Shaknahyi out of the dimly lighted bar. M. Gargotier and his daughter, Maddie, went with us. The bartender tried to thank us, but Shaknahyi just raised a hand and looked modest. “No thanks are necessary for performing a duty,” he said.
    “Come in for free drinks any time,” Gargotier said gratefully.
    “Maybe we will.” Shaknahyi turned to me. “Let’s ride,” he said.
    We went out through the patio gate. On the way back to the car I said, “It makes me feel kind of good to be welcome somewhere again.”
    Shaknahyi looked at me. “Accepting free drinks is a major infraction.”
    “I didn’t know they had infractions in the Budayeen,” I said. Shaknahyi smiled. It seemed that things had thawed a little between us.
    Shaknahyi cruised back down the Street and out of the Budayeen. Curiously, I was no longer wary of being spotted in the cop car by any of my old friends. In the first place, the way they’d been treating me, I figured the hell with ‘em. In the second place, I felt a little different now that I’d been fried in the line of duty. The experience at the Fee Blanche had changed my thinking. Now I appreciated the risks a cop has to take day after day.
    Shaknahyi surprised me. “You want to stop somewhere?” he asked.
    “Sounds good.” I was still pretty weak and the sunnies had left me a little lightheaded, so I was glad to agree.
    I unclipped the phone from my belt and spoke Chiri’s commcode into it. I heard it ring eight or nine times before she answered it. “Talk to me,” she said. She sounded irked.
    “Chiri? It’s Marîd.”
    “What do you want, motherfucker?”
    “Look, you haven’t given me any chance to explain. It’s not my fault.”
    “You said that before.” She gave a contemptuous laugh. “Famous last words, honey: ‘It’s not my fault.’ That’s what my uncle said when he sold my mama to some goddamn Arab slaver.”
    “I never knew—“
    “Forget it, it ain’t even true. You wanted a chance to explain, so explain.”
    Well, it was show time, but suddenly I didn’t have any idea what to say to her. “I’m real sorry, Chiri,” I said.
    She just laughed again. It wasn’t a friendly sound.
    I plunged ahead. “One morning I woke up and Papa said, ‘Here, now you own Chiriga’s club, isn’t that wonderful?’ What did you expect me to say to him?”
    “I know you, honey. I don’t expect you to say anything to Papa. He didn’t have to cut off your balls. You sold ‘em.”
    “Chiri, we been friends a long time. Try to understand. Papa got this idea to buy your club and give it to me. I didn’t know a thing about it in advance. I didn’t want it when he gave it to me. I tried to tell him, but—“
    “I’ll bet. I’ll just bet you told him.”
    I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I think she was enjoying this a lot. “I told him about as much as anyone can tell Papa anything.”
    “Why my place, Marîd? The Budayeen’s full of crummy bars. Why did he pick mine?”
    I knew the answer to that: Friedlander Bey was prying me loose from the few remaining connections to my old life. Making me a cop had alienated most of my friends. Forcing Chiriga to sell her club had turned her against me. Next, Papa’d find a way to make Saied the Half-Hajj hate my guts, too. “Just his sense of humor, Chiri,” I said hopelessly. “Just Papa proving that he’s always around, always watching, ready to hit us with his lightning bolts when we least expect it.”
    There was a long silence from her. “And you’re gutless, too.”
    My mouth opened and closed. I didn’t know what she was talking about. “Huh?”
    “I said you’re a gutless panya .”
    She’s always slinging Swahili at me. “What’s a panya , Chiri?” I asked.
    “It’s like a big rat, only stupider and uglier. You didn’t dare do this in person,