The Half-Hajj grunted. “Never understand you, Marid,” he said. “You sound like a tired old relic. You’re as bad as Jacques. If you just choose your moddies carefully, you never have to worry about moral questions. God knows I never do.”

That’s all I needed to hear. “See you around, Saied,” I said.

“Yeah, you right.” He turned and headed back to the Fee Blanche.

I went on to Chiri’s where I shooed everybody out, closed up the place, and drove back to Friedlander Bey’s. I climbed the stairs wearily to my apartment, glad that the long, surprise-filled day was finally over. As I was getting ready for bed, Kmuzu appeared quietly in the doorway. “You shouldn’t deceive me, yaa Sidi.”

“Your feelings hurt, Kmuzu?”

“I am here to help you. I’m sorry you refused my protection. A time may come when you will be glad to call on me.”

“That’s quite possibly true,” I said, “but in the meantime, how about leaving me alone?”

He shrugged. “Someone is waiting to see you, yaa Sidi.”

I blinked at him. “Who?”

“A woman.”

I didn’t have the energy to deal with Umm Saad now. Then again, it might be Chiri -

“Shall I show her in?” asked Kmuzu.

“Yeah, what the hell.” I was still dressed, but I was getting very tired. I promised myself that this was going to be a very short conversation.

“Marid?”

I looked around. Framed in the door, wearing a ragged brown cloth coat, holding a battered plastic suitcase, was Angel Monroe. Mom.

“Thought I’d come spend a few days with you in the city,” she said. She grinned drunkenly. “Hey, ain’t you glad to see me?”

When my admirable add-on woke me on Monday morning, I lay in bed for a few moments, thinking. I was willing to admit that maybe I’d made a few mistakes the night before. I wasn’t sure how I might have repaired the situation with Chiri, but I should have tried. I owed that much to her and our friendship. I wasn’t happy about seeing my mother at the door later, either. I’d solved that problem by digging out fifty kiam and packing her off into the night. I sent Kmuzu with her to find a hotel room. At breakfast, Friedlander Bey offered me some constructive criticism on that decision.

He was furious. There was a husky, hoarse quality to his voice that let me know he was trying like hell not to shout at me. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I could feel him tremble with emotion. His breath was perfumed with mint as he quoted the noble Qur’an. “If one of your parents or both of them attain old age with thee, say not fie unto them nor repulse them, but speak unto them a gracious word. And lower unto them the wing of submission through mercy, and say: My Lord! Have mercy on them both as they did care for me when I was little.”

I felt shaken. Being inundated by Friedlander Bey’s wrath was kind of like practicing for The Day of Judgment. He’d think that comparison was sacrilegious, of course, but he’s never been the target of his own fury.

I couldn’t keep from stammering. “You mean Angel Monroe.” Jeez, that was a lame thing to say, but Papa’d surprised me with this tirade. I still wasn’t thinking clearly.

“I’m talking about your mother,” he said. “She came to you in need, and you turned her away from your door.”

“I provided for her the best way I knew how.” I wondered how Papa had heard about the incident in the first place.

“You do not cast your mother out to abide with strangers! Now you must seek the forgiveness of Allah.”

That made me feels a little better. This was one of those times when he said “Allah” but he meant “Fried-lander Bey.” I had sinned against his personal code; but if I could find the right things to say and do, it would be all right again. “O Shaykh,” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully, “I know how you feel about women in your house. I hesitated to invite her to stay the night under your roof, and it was too late to consult with you. I balanced my mother’s need against your custom, and I did what I thought best.” Well, hell, that was almost true.

He glared at me, but I could see that he’d lost the edge of his anger. “Your action was a worse affront to me than having your mother as a guest in my home,” he said.

“I understand, O Shaykh, and I beg you to forgive me. I did not mean to offend you or disregard the teaching of the Prophet.”

“May the blessing of Allah be upon him and peace,” Papa murmured automatically. He shook his head ruefully, but with each passing second his grim expression lightened. “You are still young, my son. This is not the last error of judgment you will make. If you are to become a righteous man and a compassionate leader, you must learn from my example. When you are in doubt, never be afraid to seek my counsel, whatever the time or place.”

“Yes, O Shaykh,” I said quietly. The storm had passed.

“Now you must find your mother, return her here, and make her welcome in a suitable apartment. We have many unused rooms, and this house is yours as well as mine.”

I could tell by his tone that this conversation was over, and I was pretty damn glad. It had been like crossing between the minarets of the Shoal Mosque on a tightrope. “You are the father of kindness, O Shaykh,” I said.

“Go in safety, my nephew.”

I went back up to my suite, my breakfast forgotten. Kmuzu, as usual, went with me. “Say,” I said, as if the thought had just occurred to me, “you didn’t happen to let Friedlander Bey know about last night, did you?”

“Yaa Sidi,” he said with a blank expression, “it is the Will of the master of the house that I tell him of these things.”

I chewed my lip thoughtfully. Talking to Kmuzu was like addressing a mythical oracle: I had to be sure to phrase my questions with absolute precision, or I’d get nonsense for an answer. I began simply. “Kmuzu, you are my slave, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You obey me?”

“I obey you and the master of the house, yaa Sidi.”

“Not necessarily in that order, though.”

“Not necessarily,” he admitted.

“Well, I’m gonna give you a plain, unambiguous command. You won’t have to clear it with Papa because he suggested it to me in the first place. I want you to find a vacant apartment somewhere in the house, preferably far away from this one, and install my mother comfortably. I want you to spend the entire day seeing to her needs. When I get home from work, I’ll need to talk to her about her plans for the future, so that means she gets no drugs and no alcohol.”

Kmuzu nodded. “She could not get those things in this house, yaa Sidi.”

I’d had no problem smuggling my Pharmaceuticals in, and I was sure Angel Monroe had her own emergency supply hidden somewhere too. “Help her unpack her things,” I said, “and take the opportunity to make sure she’s checked all her intoxicants at the door.”

Kmuzu gave me a thoughtful look. “You hold her to a stricter standard than you observe yourself,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, annoyed. “Anyway, it’s not your place to mention it.”

“Forgive me, yaa Sidi.”

“Forget it. I’ll drive myself to work today.”

Kmuzu didn’t like that, either. “If you take the car,” he said, “how can I bring your mother from the hotel?”

I smiled slowly. “Sedan chair, oxcart, hired camel caravan, I don’t care. You’re the slave, you figure it out. See you tonight.” On my desk was yet another thick envelope stuffed with paper bills. One of Friedlander Bey’s little helpers had let himself into my apartment while I’d been downstairs. I took the envelope and my briefcase and left before Kmuzu could come up with another objection.

My briefcase still held the cell-memory file on Abu Adil. I was supposed to have read through it last night, but I never got around to it. Hajjar and Shaknahyi were probably going to be griped, but I didn’t care. What could they do, fire me?