Okay, I’ll admit it: Of all the possible problems he could have chosen, alms-giving was pretty low on my list of what I expected to hear. How foolish of me to think he wanted to discuss something more to the point. Lake murder.

“I’m afraid I’ve had more important things on my mind, O Shaykh,” I said.

Friedlander Bey nodded wearily. “No doubt, my son, you truly believe these other things are more important, but you are wrong. You and I share an existence of luxury and comfort, and that gives us a responsibility to our brothers.”

Jacques, my infidel friend, would’ve had trouble grasping his precise point. Sure, other religions are all in favor of charity too. It’s just good sense to take care of the poor and needy, because you never know when you’re going to end up poor and needy yourself. The Muslim attitude goes further, though. Alms-giving is one of the five pillars of the religion, as fundamental an obligation as the profession of faith, the daily prayer, the fast of Ramadan, and the pilgrimage to Mecca.

I gave the same attention to alms-giving that I gave the other duties. That is, I had profound respect for them in an intellectual sort of way, and I told myself that I’d begin practicing in earnest real soon now.

“Evidently you’ve been considering this for some time,” I said.

“We have been neglecting our duty to the poor and the wayfarers, and the widows and orphans among our neighbors.”

Some of my friends — my old friends, my former friends — think Papa is nothing but a murderous monster, but that’s not true. He’s a shrewd businessman who also maintains strong ties to the faith that created our culture. I’m sorry if that seems like a contradiction. He could be harsh, even cruel, at times; but I knew no one else as sincere in his beliefs or as glad to meet the many obligations of the noble Qur’an.

“What do you wish me to do, O my uncle?”

Friedlander Bey shrugged. “Do I not reward you well for your services?”

“You are unfailingly gracious, O Shaykh,” I said.

“Then it would not be a hardship for you to set aside a fifth part of your substance, as is suggested in the Straight Path. Indeed, I desire to make a gift to you that will swell

your purse and, at the same time, give you a source of income independent of this house.”

That caught my attention. Freedom was what I hungered for every night as I drifted off to sleep. It was what I thought of first when I woke in the morning. And the first step toward freedom was financial independence.

“You are the father of generosity, O Shaykh,” I said, “but I am unworthy.” Believe me, I was panting to hear what he was going to say. Proper form, however, required me to pretend that I couldn’t possibly accept his gift.

He raised one thin, trembling hand. “I prefer that my associates have outside sources of income, sources that they manage themselves and whose profits they need not share with me.”

“That is a wise policy,” I said. I’ve known a lot of Papa’s “associates,” and I know what kind of sources they had. I was sure he was about to cut me into some shady vice deal. Not that I had scruples, you understand. I wouldn’t mind getting my drugs wholesale. I’ve just never had much of a mind for commerce.

“Until recently the Budayeen was your whole world. You know it well, my son, and you understand its people. I have a great deal of influence there, and I thought it best to acquire for you some small commercial concern in that quarter.” He extended to me a document laminated in plastic.

I reached forward and took it from him. “What is this, O Shaykh?” I asked.

“It is a title deed. You are now the owner of the property described upon it. From this day forward it is your business to operate. It is a profitable enterprise, my nephew. Manage it well and it will reward you, inshal-lah.”

I looked at the deed. “You’re—” My voice choked. Papa had bought Chiriga’s club and was giving it to me. I looked up at him. “But—”

He waved his hand at me. “No thanks are necessary,” he said. “You are my dutiful son.”

“But this is Chiri’s place. I can’t take her club. What will she do?”

Friedlander Bey shrugged. “Business is business,” he said simply.

I just stared at him. He had a remarkable habit of giving me things I would have been happier without: Kmuzu and a career as a cop, for instance. It wouldn’t do any good at all to refuse. “I’m quite unable to express my thanks,” I said in a dull voice. I had only two good friends left, Saied the Half-Hajj and Chiri. She was really going to hate this. I was already dreading her reaction.

“Come,” said Friedlander Bey, “let us go in to dinner.” He stood up behind his desk and held out his hand to me. I followed him, still astonished. It wasn’t until later that I realized I hadn’t spoken to him about my job with Hajjar or my new assignment to investigate Reda Abu Adfl. When you’re in Papa’s presence, you go where he wants to go, you do what he wants to do, and you talk about what he wants to talk about.

We went to the smaller of the two dining rooms, in the back of the west wing on the ground floor. This is where Papa and I usually ate when we dined together. Kmuzu fell into step behind me in the corridor, and the Stone That Speaks followed Friedlander Bey. If this were a sentimental American holoshow, eventually they’d get into a fight and afterward they’d become the best of friends. Fat chance.

I stopped at the threshold of the dining room and stared. Umm Saad and her son were waiting for us inside. She was the first woman I’d ever seen in Friedlander Bey’s house, but even so she’d never been permitted to join us at the table. The boy looked about fifteen years old, which in the eyes of the faith is the age of maturity. He was old enough to meet the obligations of prayer and ritual fasting, so under other circumstances he might have been welcome to share our meal. “Kmuzu,” I said, “escort the woman back to her apartment.”

Friedlander Bey put a hand on my arm. “I thank you, my son, but I’ve invited her to meet with us.”

I looked at him, my mouth open, but no intelligent reply occurred to me. If Papa wanted to initiate major revolutions in attitude and behavior at this late date, that was his right. I closed my mouth and nodded.

“Umm Saad will have her dinner in her apartment after our discussion,” Friedlander Bey said, giving her a stern look. “Her son may then retire with her or remain with the men, as he wishes.”

Umm Saad looked impatient. “I suppose I must be grateful for whatever time you can spare me,” she said.

Papa went to his chair, and the Stone assisted him. Kmuzu showed me to my seat across the table from Fried-lander Bey. Umm Saad sat on his left, and her son sat on Papa’s right. “Marid,” said Papa, “have you met the young man?”

“No,” I said. I hadn’t even seen him before. He and his mother were keeping a very low profile in that house. The boy was tall for his age, but slender and melancholy. His skin had an unnatural yellowish tint, and the whites of his eyes were discolored. He looked unhealthy. He was dressed in a dark blue gallebeya with a geometric print, and he wore the turban of a young shaykh — not a tribal leader, but the honorary turban of a youth who has committed the entire Qur’an to memory.

“Yaa Sidi, “said the woman, “may I present to you my handsome son, Saad ben Salah?”

“May your honor be increased, sir,” said the boy.

I raised my eyebrows. At least the kid had manners. “Allah be gracious to you,” I said.

“Umm Saad,” said Friedlander Bey in a gruff voice, “you have come into my house and made extravagant claims. My patience is at an end. Out of respect for the way of hospitality I have suffered your presence, but now my conscience is clear. I demand that you trouble me no more. You must be out of my house by the call to prayer tomorrow morning. I will instruct my servants to give you any assistance you require.”