“You all right?”

No, I didn’t feel all right. On the outside I felt red-hot and glowing, as if I’d been staked out under the desert sun for a couple of days. Inside, my muscles felt quivery. I had lots of uncontrollable little spasms in my arms, legs, trunk, and face. I had a splitting headache and there was a horrible, sour taste in my mouth. I was having a lot of trouble focusing my eyes, as if someone had spread thick translucent gunk over them.

I strained to make out who was talking to me. I could barely make out the voice because my ears were ringing so loud. It turned out to be Shaknahyi, and that indicated that I was still alive. For an awful moment after I came to, I thought I might be in Allah’s green room or somewhere. Not that being alive was any big thrill just then. “What—” I croaked. My throat was so dry I could barely speak.

“Here.” Shaknahyi handed a glass of cold water down to me. I realized that I was lying flat on my back on the floor, and Shaknahyi and Monsieur Gargotier were standing over me, frowning and shaking their heads.

I took the water and drank it gratefully. When I finished, I tried talking again. “What happened?” I said.

“You fucked up,” Shaknahyi said.

“Right,” I said.

A narrow smile creased Shaknahyi’s face. He reached down and offered me a hand. “Get up off the floor.”

I stood up wobbily and made my way to the nearest chair. “Gin and bingara,” I said to Gargotier. “Put a hit of Rose’s lime in it.” The barkeep grimaced, but he turned away to get my drink. I took out my pillcase and dug out maybe eight or nine Sonneine.

“I heard about you and your drugs,” said Shaknahyi.

“It’s all true,” I said. When Gargotier brought my drink, I swallowed the opiates. I couldn’t wait for them to start fixing me up. Everything would be just fine in a couple of minutes.

“You could’ve gotten everybody killed, trying to talk that guy down,” Shaknahyi said. I was feeling bad enough already, I didn’t want to listen to his little lecture right then. He went ahead with it anyway. “What the hell were you trying to do? Establish rapport or something? We don’t work that way when people’s lives are in danger.”

“Yeah?” I said. “What do you do?”

He spread his hands like the answer should have been perfectly obvious. “You get around where he can’t see you, and you ice the motherfucker.”

“Did you ice me before or after you iced Al-Muntaqim?”

“That what he was calling himself? Hell, Audran, you got to expect a little beam diffusion with these static pistols. I’m real sorry I had to drop you too, but there’s no permanent damage, inshallah. He jumped up with that box, and I wasn’t gonna wait around for you to give me a clear shot. I had to take what I could get.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Where’s The Avenger now?”

“The meat wagon came while you were napping. Took him off to the lock ward at the hospital.”

That made me a little angry. “The mad bomber gets shipped to a nice bed in the hospital, but I got to lie around on the filthy floor of this goddamn saloon?”

Shaknahyi shrugged. “He’s in a lot worse shape than you are. You only got hit by the fuzzy edge of the charge. He took it full.”

It sounded like Al-Muntaqim was going to feel pretty rotten for a while. Didn’t bother me none.

“No percentage in debating morality with a loon,” said Shaknahyi. “You go in looking for the first opportunity to stabilize the sucker.” He made a trigger-pulling motion with his right index finger.

“That’s not what Complete Guardian was telling me,” I said. “By the way, did you pop the moddy for me? What did you do with it?”

“Yeah,” said Shaknahyi, “here it is.” He took the moddy out of a shirt pocket and tossed it down on the floor beside me. Then he raised his heavy black boot and stamped the plastic module into jagged pieces. Brightly colored fragments of the webwork circuitry skittered across the floor. “Wear another one of those, I do the same to your face and then I kick the remnants out of my patrol car.”

So much for Marid Audran, Ideal Law Enforcement Officer.

I stood up feeling a lot better, and followed Shaknahyi out of the dimly lighted bar. Monsieur 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 anytime,” Gargotier said gratefully.

“Maybe we will.” Shaknahyi turned to me. “Let’s ride,” he said. We went out through the patio gate. Old Weinraub was still sitting beneath his Cinzano umbrella, apparently oblivious to everything that had gone on.

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.

Before I got into the car, a muezzin from some mosque beyond the quarter chanted the afternoon call to prayer. I watched Shaknahyi go into the patrol car’s backseat and come out with a rolled prayer rug. He spread the rug on the sidewalk and prayed for several minutes. For some reason it made me feel very uncomfortable. When he finished, he rolled the prayer rug again and put it back in the car, giving me an odd look, a kind of silent reproach.

We both got into the patrol car, but neither of us said anything for a while.

Shaknahyi cruised back down the Street and out of the Budayeen. Curiously, I was no longer wary of being spotted in the copcar 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 for lunch?” he asked.

“Sounds good.” I was still pretty weak and the sunnies had left me a little lightheaded, so I was glad to agree.

“There’s a place near the station house we sometimes go to.” He punched the siren and made some fast time through the traffic. About a block from the beanery, he turned off the horn and glided into an illegal parking place. “Police perks,” he said, grinning at me. “There ain’t many others.”

When we got inside, I was pleasantly surprised. The cookshop was owned by a young Mauretanian named Meloul, and the food was pure Maghrebi. By bringing me here, Shaknahyi more than made up for the pain he’d caused me earlier. I looked at him, and suddenly he didn’t seem like such a bad guy.

“Let’s grab this table,” he said, picking one far from the door and against a wall, where he could watch the other customers and keep an eye on what was happening outside too.

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t get food from home very often.”

“Meloul,” he called, “I got one of your cousins here.”

The proprietor came over, carrying a stainless steel pitcher and basin. Shaknahyi washed his hands carefully and dried them on a clean white towel. Then I washed my hands and dried them on a second towel. Meloul looked at me and smiled. He was about my age, but taller and darker. “I am Berber,” he said. “You are Berber too, yes? You are from Oran?”

“I’ve got a little Berber blood in me,” I said. “I was born in Sidi-bel-Abbes, but I grew up in Algiers.”

He came toward me, and I stood up. We exchanged kisses on the cheek. “I live all my life in Oran,” he said. “Now I live in this fine city. Sit down, be comfortable, I bring good food to you and Jirji.”

“The two of you got a lot in common,” said Shaknahyi.

I nodded. “Listen, Officer Shaknahyi,” I said, “I want to—”