Tami was sprawled on a heap of brightly patterned pillows, with her head propped against one of the speakers of her holo system. If that music had sounded loud down in the street, I was now learning what “loud” meant. The music must have been throbbing in Tami’s skull like the world’s worst migraine, but she didn’t seem to mind. It must have been throbbing in time to whatever drug she had in her. Her eyes were half-closed and she was slowly nodding. Her face was painted white, as stark white as a geisha’s, but her lips and eyelids were flat black. She looked like the avenging specter of a murdered Kabuki character.

“Nikki,” I said. She didn’t hear me. I had to walk right up next to her and shout into her ear. “Why don’t we get out of here, where we can talk?” Tamiko was burning some kind of incense, and the air was thick with its overwhelming sweet scent. I really wanted some fresh air. Nikki shook her head and pointed to Tami.

“She won’t let me go.”

“Why not?”

“She thinks she’s protecting me.”

“From what?”

Nikki shrugged. “Ask her.”

As I watched, Tami canted over alarmingly and toppled in slow motion, until her white-daubed cheek was pressed against the bare, dark-varnished wood of the floor. “It’s a good thing you can take care of yourself, Nikki.”

She laughed weakly. “Yeah, I guess so. Look, Marîd, thanks for coming over.”

“No problem,” I said. I sat in an armchair and looked at her. Nikki was an exotic in a city of exotics: her long, pale blond hair fell to the small of her back. Her skin was the color of young ivory, almost as white as the paint on Tami’s face. Her eyes were unnaturally blue, however, and glittered with a flickering hint of madness. The delicacy of her facial features contrasted disconcertingly with the bulk and strength of her frame. It was a common enough error; people chose surgical modifications that they admired in others, not realizing that the changes might look out of place in the context of their own bodies. I glanced at Tami’s inert form. She wore the emblem of the Black Widow Sisters: immense, incredible breast implants. Tami’s bust probably measured fifty-five or sixty inches. It was funny to see the stunned expression on a tourist’s face when he accidentally bumped into one of the Sisters. It was funny unless you thought a little about what was likely to happen.

“I just don’t want to work for Abdoulaye anymore,” said Nikki, watching her fingers twist a lock of her champagne-colored hair.

“I can understand that. I’ll call and arrange a meeting with Hassan. You know Hassan the Shiite? Papa’s mouthpiece? That’s who we have to deal with.”

Nikki shook her head. Her bright gaze flicked about the room. She was worried. “Will it be dangerous or anything?” she asked.

I smiled. “Not a chance,” I said. “There’ll be a table set up, and I’ll sit on one side with you, and Abdoulaye will sit on the other. Hassan sits between us. I present your side of the story, Abdoulaye gives his, and Hassan thinks about it. Then he makes his judgment. Usually you have to make some kind of payment to Abdoulaye. Hassan will name the figure. You’ll have to grease Hassan a little afterward, and we ought to bring some kind of gift for Papa. That helps.”

Nikki didn’t look reassured. She stood up and tucked her black T-shirt into her tight black jeans. “You don’t know Abdoulaye,” she said.

“You bet your ass I do,” I said. I probably knew him better than she did. I got up and crossed the room to Tami’s Telefunken holo. With a stiff forefinger I silenced the koto music. Peace flooded in; the world thanked me. Tamiko moaned in her sleep.

“What if he doesn’t keep his part of the agreement? What if he comes after me and forces me to go back to work for him? He likes to beat up girls, Marîd. He likes that a lot.”

“I know all about him. But he has the same respect for Friedlander Bey’s influence that everyone else does. He won’t dare cross Hassan’s decision. And you better not, either. If you skip out without paying, Papa will send his thugs after you. You’ll be back to work for sure, then. After you heal.”

Nikki shuddered. “Has anybody ever skipped out on you?” she asked.

I frowned. It had happened just one time: I remembered the situation all too well. It had been the last time I’d ever been in love. “Yeah,” I said.

“What did Papa and Hassan do?”

It was a lousy memory, and I didn’t like calling it up. “Well, because I represented her, I was responsible for the payment. I had to come up with thirty-two hundred kiam. I was stone broke, but believe me, I got the money. I had to do a lot of crazy, dangerous things to get it, but I owed it to Papa because of what this girl did. Papa likes to be paid quickly. Papa doesn’t have a lot of patience at times like that.”

“I know,” said Nikki. “What happened to the girl?”

It took me a few seconds to get the words out. “They found out where she’d split to. It wasn’t difficult for them to trace her. They brought her back with her legs fractured in three places each, and her face was ruined. They put her to work in one of their filthiest whorehouses. She could earn only one or two hundred kiam a week in a place like that, and they let her keep maybe ten or fifteen. She’s still saving up to get her face fixed.”

Nikki couldn’t say anything for a long time. I let her think about what I told her. Thinking about it would be good for her.

“Can you call to make the appointment now?” she asked at last.

“Sure,” I said. “Is next Monday soon enough?”

Her eyes widened. “Can’t we do it tonight? I need to get it finished tonight.”

“What’s your hurry, Nikki? Going somewhere?”

She gave me a sharp look. Her mouth opened and closed. “No,” she said, her voice shaky.

“You can’t just set up appointments with Hassan whenever you want.”

“Try, Marîd. Can’t you just call him and try?”

I made a little gesture of surrender. “I’ll call. I’ll ask. But Hassan will make the appointment at his convenience.”

Nikki nodded. “Sure,” she said.

I unclipped my phone and unfolded it. I didn’t have to ask Info for Hassan’s commcode. The phone rang once and was answered by one of Hassan’s stooges. I told him who I was and what I wanted, and I was told to wait; they always tell you to wait, and you wait. I sat there, watching Nikki twisting her hair, watching Tamiko breathing slowly, listening to her snoring softly on the floor. Tamiko was wearing a light cotton kimono, dyed matte black. She never wore any kind of jewelry or ornament. With the kimono, her ornately arranged black hair, her surgically altered eyelids, and the painted face, she looked like an assassin-geisha, which is what she was, I guess. Tamiko looked very convincing, with the epicanthic folds and all, for someone who hadn’t been born an Oriental.

A quarter of an hour later, with Nikki fidgeting nervously around the apartment, the stooge spoke into my ear. We had an appointment for that evening, just after sunset prayers. I didn’t bother to thank Hassan’s flunky; I have a certain amount of pride, after all. I clipped the phone back on my belt. “I’ll come by and get you about seven-thirty,” I said to Nikki.

I got that nervous eye-flick again. “Can’t I meet you there?” she asked.

I let my shoulders sag. “Why not? You know where?”

“Hassan’s shop?”

“You go straight back through the curtain. There’s a storeroom behind there. Go through the storeroom, through the back door into the alley. You’ll see an iron door in the opposite wall. It’ll be locked, but they’ll be expecting you. You won’t have to knock. Get there on time, Nikki.”

“I will. And thanks, Marîd.”

“The hell with thanks. I want my hundred kiam now.”

She looked startled. Maybe I’d sounded a little too tough; too bad. “Can’t I give it to you after—”

“Now, Nikki.”