“The report on Reda Abu Adil?”

I looked at him sharply. “Yes,” I said, “that’s right.”

“Perhaps I can help you get a clearer picture of the man and his motives.”

“How is it that you know so much about him, Kmuzu?” I asked.

“When I was first brought to the city, I was employed as a bodyguard for one of Abu Adil’s wives.”

I thought that information was remarkable. Consider: I begin an investigation of a total stranger, and my brand-new slave turns out to have once worked for that same man. This wasn’t a coincidence, I could feel it. I had faith that it’d all fit together eventually. I just hoped I’d still be alive and healthy when it did.

I paused outside the door to my suite. “Go get your bedding and your belongings,” I told Kmuzu. “I’ll be going through the file on Abu Adil. Don’t worry about disturbing me, though. When I’m working, it takes a bomb blast to distract me.”

“Thank you, yaa Sidi. I will be as quiet as I can.”

I began to turn the color lock on the door. Kmuzu gave a little bow and headed toward the servants’ quarters. When he’d turned the corner, I hurried away in the opposite direction. I went down to the garage and found my car. It felt strange, sneaking away from my own servant, but I just didn’t feel like having him tagging along with me tonight. I drove through the Christian quarter and then through the upper-class shopping district east of the Budayeen. I parked the car on the Boulevard il-Jameel, not far from where Bill usually sat in his taxi. Before I left the car, I took out my pillcase. It seemed like it had been a long time since I’d treated myself to some friendly drugs. I was well supplied, thanks to my higher income and the many new contacts I’d met through Papa. I selected a couple of blue triphets; I was in such a hurry that I swallowed them right there, without water. In a little while I’d be ramping with energy and feeling indomitable. I was going to need the help, because I had an ugly scene ahead of me.

I also thought about chipping in a moddy, but at the last moment I decided against it. I needed to talk with Chiri, and I had enough respect for her to show up in my own head. Afterward, though, things might be different. I might feel like going home as someone else entirely.

Chiri’s club was crowded that night. The air was still and warm inside, sweet with a dozen different perfumes, sour with sweat and spilled beer. The sex changes and pre-op debs chatted with the customers with false cheerfulness, and their laughter broke through the shrill music as they called for more champagne cocktails. Bright bolts of red and blue neon slashed down slantwise behind the bar, and brilliant points of light from spinning mirror balls sparkled on the walls and ceiling. In one corner there was a hologram of Honey Pilar, writhing alone upon a blond mink coat spread on the white sands of some romantic beach. It was an ad for her new sex moddy, Slow, Slow Burn. I stared at it for a moment, almost hypnotized.

“Audran,” came Chiriga’s hoarse voice. She didn’t sound happy to see me. “Mr. Boss.”

“Listen, Chiri,” I said. “Let me—”

“Lily,” she called to one of the changes, “get the new owner a drink. Gin and bingara with a hit of Rose’s.” She looked at me fiercely. “The tende is mine, Audran. Private stock. It doesn’t go with the club, and I’m taking it with me.”

She was making it hard for me. I could only imagine how she felt. “Wait a minute, Chiri. I had nothing to do with—”

“These are the keys. This one’s for the register. The money in there’s all yours. The girls are yours, the hassles are yours from now on too. You got any problems you can go to Papa with “em.” She snatched her bottle of tende from under the bar. “Kwa heri, motherfucker,” she snarled at me. Then she stormed out of the club.

Everything got real quiet then. Whatever song had been playing came to an end and nobody put on another one. A deb named Kandy was on stage, and she just stood there and stared at me like I might start slavering and shrieking at any moment. People got up from their stools near me and edged away. I looked into their faces and I saw hostility and contempt.

Friedlander Bey wanted to divorce me from all my connections to the Budayeen. Making me a cop had been a great start, but even so I still had a few loyal friends. Forcing Chiri to sell her club had been another brilliant stroke. Soon I’d be just as lonely and friendless as Papa himself, except I wouldn’t have the consolation of his wealth and power.

“Look,” I said, “this is all a mistake. I got to settle this with Chiri. Indihar, take charge, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Indihar just gave me a disdainful look. She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t stand to be in there another minute. I grabbed the keys Chiri’d dropped on the bar and I went outside. She wasn’t anywhere in sight on the Street. She might have gone straight home, but she’d probably gone to another club.

I went to the Fee Blanche, old man Gargotier’s cafe on Ninth Street. Saied, Mahmoud, Jacques, and I hung out there a lot. We liked to sit on the patio and play cards early in the evening. It was a good place to catch the action.

They were all there, all right. Jacques was the token Christian in our crowd. He liked to tell people that he was three-quarters European. Jacques was strictly heterosexual and smug about it. Nobody liked him much. Mahmoud was a sexchange, formerly a slim-hipped, doe-eyed dancing girl in the clubs on the Street. Now he was short, broad, and mean, like one of those evil djinn you had to sneak past to rescue the enchanted princess. I heard that he was running the organized prostitution in the Budayeen for Friedlander Bey these days. Saied the Half-Hajj glared at me over the rim of a glass of Johnny Walker, his usual drink. He was wearing his tough-guy moddy, and he was just looking for me to give him an excuse to break my bones.

“Where y’at?” I said.

“You’re scum, Audran,” said Jacques softly. “Filth.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I can’t stay long.” I sat in the empty chair. Monsieur Gargotier came over to see if I was spending any money tonight. His expression was so carefully neutral, I could tell he hated my guts now too.

“Seen Chiri pass by here in the last few minutes?” I asked. Monsieur Gargotier cleared his throat. I ignored him and he went away.

“Want to shake her down some more?” asked Mahmoud. “Think maybe she walked out with some paper clips that belong to you? Leave her alone, Audran.”

I’d had enough. I stood up, and Saied stood up across the table from me. He took two quick steps toward me, grabbed my cloak with one hand, and pulled his other fist straight back. Before he could slug me, I chopped quickly at his nose. A little blood came out of his nostril. He was startled, but then his mouth began to twist in pure rage. I grabbed the rnoddy on his corymbic implant and ripped it loose. I could see his eyes unfocus. He must have been completely disoriented for a moment. “Leave me the hell alone,” I said, pushing him back down in his chair. “All of you.” I tossed the moddy into the Half-Hajj’s lap.

I headed back down the Street, seething. I didn’t know what to do next. Chiri’s club — my club, now — was packed with people and I couldn’t count on Indihar to keep order. I decided to go back there and try to sort things out. Before I’d walked very far, Saied came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re making yourself real unpopular, Maghrebi,” he said.

“It’s not all my doing.”

He shook his head. “You’re letting it happen. You’re responsible.”

“Thanks,” I said. I kept walking.

He took my right hand and slapped his badass moddy into it. “You take this,” he said. “I think you’re gonna need it.”

I frowned. “The kind of problems I got call for a clear head, Saied. I got all these moral questions to think about. Not just Chiri and her club. Other things.”