Back in the patrol car, the comp deck spoke up. “Badge number 374, respond immediately. Escaped murderer Paul Jawarski has been positively identified in Meloul’s on Nur ad-Din Street. He is desperate, well armed, and he will shoot to kill. Other units are on their way.”

“We’ll take care of it,” said Shaknahyi. The comp deck’s crackle faded away.

“Meloul’s is where we ate lunch that time, right?” I said.

Shaknahyi nodded. “We’ll try to ease this bastard Jawarski out of there before he puts holes in Meloul’s couscous steamer.”

“Holes?” I asked.

Shaknahyi turned and gave me a broad grin. “He likes old-fashioned pistols. He carries a .45 automatic. Put a dimple in you big enough to throw a leg of lamb through.”

“You heard of this Jawarski?”

Shaknahyi swung into Nur ad-Din Street. “We street cops have been seeing his picture for weeks. Claims he’s killed twenty-six men. He’s the boss of the Flathead Gang. There’s ten thousand kiam on his head.”

Evidently I was supposed to know what he was talking about. “You don’t seem too concerned,” I said.

Shaknahyi raised a hand. “I don’t know whether the tip’s genuine or just another pipe dream. We get as many fake calls as good ones in this neighborhood.”

We were the first to arrive at Meloul’s. Shaknahyi opened his door and got out. I did the same. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Just keep the citizens out of the way,” he said. “In case there’s some—”

There was a volley of shots from inside the restaurant.

Those projectile weapons make a respectable noise. They sure catch your attention when they go off, not like the spitting and hissing of static and seizure guns. I dropped to the sidewalk and tried to wrestle my static gun free of my pocket. There were more shots and I heard glass shattering nearby. The windshield, I guessed.

Shaknahyi had fallen back alongside the building, out of the line of fire. He was drawing his own weapon.

“Jirji,” I called.

He waved to me to cut off the back of the restaurant. I got up and moved a few yards, and then I heard Jawarski run out the front door. I turned and saw Shaknahyi chasing after him, firing his needle gun down Nur ad-Din Street. Shaknahyi shot four times, and then Jawarski turned. I was looking straight at them, and all I could think about was how big and black the mouth of Jawarski’s gun looked. It seemed like it was pointed straight at my heart. He fired a few times and my blood froze until I realized I hadn’t been hit.

Jawarski ran into a yard a few doors from Meloul’s, and Shaknahyi went in after him. The fugitive must have realized that he couldn’t cut through to the next street, because he doubled back toward Shaknahyi. I got there just as the two men stood facing each other, shooting it out. Jawarski’s gun emptied and he turned and ran to the back of a two-story house.

We chased him through the yard. Shaknahyi ran up a flight of steps in the back, pushed open a door, and went inside the house. I didn’t want to, but I had to follow him. As soon as I opened the back door, I saw Shaknahyi. He was leaning against a wall, shoving a fresh clip into his needle gun. He didn’t seem to be aware of the large, dark stain that was spreading across his chest.

“Jirji, you’re shot,” I said, my mouth dry and my heart hammering.

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Come on.”

He walked slowly through the house to the front door. He went outside and stopped a civilian in a small electric car. “Too far to get the patrol car,” he said to me, panting for breath. He looked at the driver. “I’m shot,” he said, getting into the car.

I got in beside him. “Take us to the hospital,” I ordered the mousy little man behind the wheel.

Shaknahyi swore. “Forget that. Follow him.” He pointed to Jawarski, who was crossing the open space between the house he’d hidden in and the next.

Jawarski saw us and fired as he ran. The bullet went through the window of the car, but the bald-headed driver kept on going. We could see Jawarski dodging from one house to another. Between houses, he’d turn and take a few shots at us. Five more bullets spanged into the car.

Finally Jawarski got to the last house on the block, and he ran up the porch. Shaknahyi steadied his needle gun and fired. Jawarski staggered inside. “Come on,” said Shaknahyi, wheezing. “I think I got him.” He opened the car door and fell to the pavement. I jumped out and helped him to his feet. “Where are they?” he murmured.

I looked over my shoulder. A handful of uniformed cops were swarming up the stairs of Jawarski’s hiding place, and three more patrol cars were racing up the street. “They’re right here, Jirji,” I said. His skin was starting to turn an awful gray color.

He leaned against the shot-up car and caught his breath. “Hurts like hell,” he said quietly.

“Take it easy, Jirji. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

“Wasn’t no accident, the call about On Cheung, then the tip on Jawarski.”

“What you talking about?” I asked.

He was in a lot of pain, but he wouldn’t get in the car. “The Phoenix File,” he said. He looked deeply into my eyes, as if he could burn this information directly into my brain. “Hajjar let it slip about the Phoenix File. I been keeping notes ever since. They don’t like it. Pay attention to who gets my parts, Audran. But play dumb or they’ll take your bones too.”

“The hell is a Phoenix File, Jirji?” I was frantic with worry.

“Take this.” He gave me the vinyl-covered notebook from his hip pocket. Then his eyes closed and he slumped backward across the hood of the car. I looked at the driver. “Now you want to take him to the hospital?”

The shrimpy bald-headed man stared at me. Then he looked at Jirji. “You think you can keep that blood off my upholstery?” he asked.

I grabbed the little motherfucker by the front of his shirt and threw him out of his own car. Then I gently eased Shaknahyi into the passenger seat and drove to the hospital as fast as I’ve ever driven.

It didn’t make any difference. I was too late.

One of Khayyam’s rubaiyyat kept going through my mind. Something about regret:

Again, again, Repentance oft before I vowed — but was I sober when I swore? Again, again I failed, for younger thoughts my frail Repentance into tatters tore.

“Chiri, please,” I said, holding up my empty glass. The club was almost empty. It was late and I was very tired. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, the same shrill, thumping hispo music Kandy played every time she got up to dance. I was getting tired of hearing the same songs over and over again.

“Why don’t you go home?” Chiri asked me. “I can take care of the place by myself. What’s the matter, don’t you trust me with the cash?”

I opened my eyes. She’d put a fresh vodka gimlet in front of me. I was in a bottomless melancholy, the kind that doesn’t get any help at all from liquor. You can drink all night and you never get loaded. You end up with a bad stomach and a pounding headache, but the relief you expect from your troubles never comes. “ ’S all right,” I said. “I got to stay. You go ahead and close up, though. Nobody’s come in for an hour at least.”

“What you say, boss,” said Chiri, giving me a worried look. I hadn’t told her about Shaknahyi. I hadn’t told anybody about him.

“Chiri, you know somebody I can trust to do a little dirty work?”

She didn’t look shocked. That was one of the reasons I liked her so much. “You can’t find somebody with your cop connections? You don’t have enough thugs working for you at Papa’s?”

I shook my head. “Somebody who knows what he’s doing, somebody I can count on to keep a low profile.”

Chiri grinned. “Somebody like what you used to be before your lucky number came up. What about Morgan? He’s dependable and he probably won’t sell you out.”