I thought about this as I walked back on the Street, past Frenchy Benoit’s club to the cemetery. I had a sense that events were moving quickly to their conclusion, although I couldn’t yet tell if that ending would be tragic or happy for me. I wished I had Shaknahyi to advise me, and I wished I had made better use of his experience while he was still alive. It was his grave I wanted to visit first.

There were several people at the entrance to the cemetery, sitting or squatting on the uneven, broken slabs of concrete. They all jumped to their feet when they saw me, the old men selling Coca-Cola and Sharab from battered coolers on tricycles, the toothless old women grinning and shoving bundles of dead, drooping flowers in my face, the children crying “O Generous! O Compassionate!” and blocking my way. Sometimes I don’t respond well to organized, clamorous begging. I lose a lot of my sympathy. I pushed through the crowd, stopping only to trade a couple of kiam for a wilted bouquet. Then I passed beneath the brick arch, into the cemetery.

Shaknahyi’s grave was across the way, near the wall on the western side. The dirt was still bare, although a little grass had begun to poke through. I bent down and placed the meager bouquet at the grave’s head, which in accordance with Muslim tradition pointed toward Mecca.

I stood up and looked back toward Sixteenth Street, over the many graves thrown haphazardly together. The Muslim tombs were each marked with a crescent and star, but there were also a few Christian crosses, a few Stars of David, and many unmarked at all. Shaknahyi’s final resting place had only an upended flat rock with his name and the date of his death scratched on. Someday soon that rock would topple over, and no doubt it would be stolen by another mourner too poor to afford a proper marker. Shaknahyi’s name would be removed with a little sandpaper or steel wool, and the rock would serve as someone else’s headstone until it was stolen again. I made a mental note to pay for a permanent grave marker. He deserved that much, at least.

A young boy in a robe and turban tugged on my sleeve. “O Father of sadness,” he said in a high-pitched voice, “I can recite.”

This was one of the young shaykhs who’d committed the entire Qur’an to memory. He probably supported his family by reciting verses in the cemetery. “I will give you ten kiam to pray for my friend,” I said. He’d caught me in a weak moment.

“Ten kiam, effendi! Do you want me to recite the whole Book?”

I put my hand on his bony shoulder. “No. Just something comforting about God and Heaven.”

The boy frowned. “There’s much more about Hell and the eternal flames,” he said.

“I know. I don’t want to hear that.”

“All right, effendi.” And he began murmuring the ancient phrases in a singsong voice. I left him beside Shaknahyi’s grave and wandered back toward the entrance.

My friend and occasional lover, Nikki, had been laid to rest in a low whitewashed tomb that was already falling into disrepair. Nikki’s family certainly could have afforded to bring her body home for burial, but they’d preferred to leave her here. Nikki had been a sexchange, and her family probably didn’t want to be embarrassed. Anyway, this lonely tomb seemed to be in keeping with Nikki’s hard, loveless life. On my desk in the police station, I still kept a small brass scarab that had belonged to her. A week didn’t go by when I didn’t think of Nikki.

I passed by the graves of Tamiko, Devi, and Selima, the Black Widow Sisters, and of Hassan the Shiite, the son of a bitch who’d almost killed me. I found myself maundering gloomily along the narrow brick paths, and I decided that wasn’t how I wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon. I shook off the growing depression and headed back toward the Street. When I glanced over my shoulder, the young shaykh was still standing beside Shaknahyi’s grave, reciting the holy words. I felt sure that he’d stay there ten kiams’ worth, even after I was gone.

I had to force my way through the mob of beggars again, but this time I threw a handful of coins to them. When they scrambled for the money, it made it easier to escape. I undipped my phone from my belt and spoke Saied the Half-Hajj’s commcode. I waited a few rings, and I was about to give up when he answered. “Marhaba, “he said.

“It’s Marid. How you doin?”

“Aw right. What’s happening?”

“Oh, nothing much. I got out of the hospital.”

“Ah! Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, I get tired of that place. Anyway, you with Jacques and Mahmoud?”

“Uh yeah. We’re all sitting in Courane’s getting drunk. Why don’t you come on by?”

“I think I will. I need you to do me a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell you about it later. See you in maybe half an hour. Ma’ as-salaama.”

“Allah yisallimak.”

I clipped the phone back on my belt. I’d walked all the way back to Chiriga’s, and suddenly I had a terrific urge to go in and see if Indihar or any of the girls had a few sunnies or tri-phets they could spare. It wasn’t withdrawal I was feeling; it was a hunger that had been growing for many days. It took a lot of willpower to fight off the craving. It would have been so much easier to admit my true nature and give in. I might have, except I knew that later I’d need my brains unaddled.

I kept on walking until I got to Fifth Street, when I was stopped by one of the most unusual sights I’ve ever seen. Laila, the old black hag who owned the modshop was standing in the middle of the Street, screaming shrill curses at Safiyya the Lamb Lady, who was standing a block away and yelling her head off too. They looked like two gunfighters from an American holoshow, screeching and snarling and threatening each other. I saw some tourists coming up the street; they stopped and watched the old women nervously, then backed away again toward the eastern gate. I felt the same way. I didn’t want to get in between those two witches. You could almost see the green rays shooting out of their eyes.

I couldn’t actually understand what they were saying. Their voices were strained and hoarse, and they may not have been screaming in Arabic. I didn’t know if the Lamb Lady’d had her skull amped, but Laila never went anywhere without a moddy and a handful of daddies. She could have been ranting in ancient Etruscan for all I knew.

After a little while they both got tired of it. Safiyya left first, making an obscene gesture in Laila’s direction and heading back down the Street toward the Boulevard il-Jameel. Laila stared after her, throwing a few final un-pleasantries her way. Then, muttering to herself, she turned down Fourth Street. I followed her. I thought I might find a useful moddy in her shop.

When I got there, Laila was behind her cash register, humming to herself and sorting a stack of invoices.

When I came in, she looked up and smiled. “Marid,” she said sadly, “do you know how boring it is to be the wife of a country doctor?”

“To be honest, Laila, no, I don’t.” Evidently, she’d chipped in another moddy as soon as she got back to her shop, and now it was as if she hadn’t seen the Lamb Lady at all. “Well,” she said slyly, giving me a wicked smile, “if you did know, you wouldn’t blame me at all if I considered taking a lover.” “Madame Bovary?” I asked.

She just winked. The effect was moderately hideous. I began browsing in her dusty bins. I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for. “Laila,” I called over my shoulder, “do the letters A.L.M. mean anything to you?”

“L’Association des Larves Maboules?” That meant the Association of Crazy Wimps. “Who are they?” I asked. “You know. People like Fuad.” “Never heard of it,” I said. “I just made it up, cheri.”

“Uh huh.” I picked up a moddy package that caught my eye. It was an anthology of fictional types, mostly Eur-Am defenders of the meek, although there was an ancient Chinese poet-king, a Bantu demigod, and a Nordic trickster. The only name I recognized was Mike Hammer. I still owned a Nero Wolfe moddy, although the companion hardware, Archie Goodwin, had died horribly under the heel of Saied the Half-Hajj.