“No reason, I guess,” said the Half-Hajj. “Now, you want me to go in with you?”

“No thanks, Saied. I want you to stay down here and guard this back entrance. I’m going upstairs and talk with Morgan. I want to be alone with Jawarski. I’m gonna send Morgan down to watch the front.”

Saied looked worried. “I don’t think that’s smart, Maghrebi. Jawarski’s a clever guy, and he don’t mind killing people. You’re not in any condition to wrestle with him.”

“I won’t have to.” I reached up and chipped in Rex. I took my static pistol out of my pocket.

“Well, what you gonna do? If Hajjar’s just gonna let Jawarski go free—”

“I’m going over Hajjar’s head,” I said. I was determined that Jawarski wasn’t going to escape justice. “I’m gonna call the captain and the police superintendent and the news media. They can’t all be crooked.”

“I don’t see why not,” said the Half-Hajj. “But you’re probably right. Remember, we’ll be right down here if you need help. Jawarski won’t get away this time.”

I grinned at him. “Bet your ass he won’t.” I moved past him into the tenement building. I was in a cool, dark hallway that led to a flight of stairs. There was the usual dank, musty smell of an abandoned building. My feet scattered bits of rubble as I climbed up to the third floor. “Morgan?” I called. He probably had a gun in his hand, and I didn’t want to surprise him.

“Is that you, man? You sure took long enough getting here.”

I arrived at the landing where he was sitting. “Sorry,” I said, “I ran into a little trouble.”

His eyes got big when he saw how torn and hurt I was. “Looks like you already ran into as much as you can handle today, man.”

“I’m fine, Morgan.” I took five hundred kiam out of my jeans and paid him the rest of his money. “Now, go keep an eye on the street entrance. I’ll call if I need help.”

The blond American started downstairs. “You need help,” he said dubiously, “it’ll be too late by the time you shout.”

The daddy had me feeling no pain, and Rex made me think I was equal to any challenge Jawarski might present. I checked the charge in my static pistol, then rapped on the apartment door. “Jawarski,” I shouted, “this is Marid Audran. Jirji Shaknahyi was my partner. I’m here to take you in for his murder.”

I didn’t have to wait long. Jawarski opened the door, laughing. He was holding a black .45 caliber automatic pistol. “Stupid son of a bitch, ain’t you?” he said. He stood back so I could get by.

I made sure he saw my weapon as I went past him, but he was so sure of himself that he didn’t act the least bit concerned. I sat down on a torn couch opposite the door. Jawarski dropped into an armchair covered in blood-gained floral material. I was shocked by how young he was. I was surprised to see that he was at least five years younger than me.

“Ever hear what Islamic law does to murderers?” I asked him. We were holding our guns on each other, but Jawarski seemed almost nonchalant.

“Nah, it don’t make much difference,” he said. “I don’t care if I die.” Jawarski had a peculiar way of talking out of one side of his mouth, as if he thought it made him look tough and fierce. He obviously had some serious psychological problems, but he wasn’t going to live long enough to clear them up. “So who told you I was here? I always bumped off squealers. Tell me who it was, so I can fog the bastard.”

“You won’t get the chance, pal. You can’t have the whole city bought off.”

“Let’s make this quick,” he said, trying to upset me. “I’m supposed to collect my money and leave town tonight.” He didn’t seem to be bothered at all by my static pistol.

He was staring to my right. I let my eyes drift in that direction, toward a small wooden table not far from the couch, covered with newspaper. There were three clips of ammunition lying there. “Was it Hajjar who told you to kill Shaknahyi?” I asked. “Or Umar, Abu Adil’s punk?” “I ain’t a squawker,” he said. He gave me a twisted grin.

“And the others — Blanca Mataro, the rest of them. You didn’t use that .45. How come?”

Jawarski shrugged. “They told me not to. They didn’t want any of the parts damaged, I guess. They told me who to put away and I done it with a little static gun. I always called in the tip to the cops myself, so the cripple cart’d get there fast. I guess they didn’t want the meat to spoil.” He gave a grunting chuckle that set my teeth on edge.

I glanced at the table, thinking that Jawarski might not have bothered to put a clip into his pistol before he let me into the room. He looked like he enjoyed bluffing. “How many have you killed?” I asked.

“You mean altogether?” Jawarski looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, I’ve got twenty-six anyway. That’s all I ever kept track of. Pretty near one for every year. And my birthday’s comin’ up soon. How’d you like to be number twenty-seven?”

I felt a rush of fury. “You’re real close, Jawarski,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Go ahead, you got a girl’s gun, lay me out if you got the guts.” He was enjoying this, mocking me and goading me. “Look, here’s a clipping,” he said. “ ‘Jawarski Bad Man, Legendary Figure,’ it says. How ’bout that?” “Ever think about the people you shoot?” I asked. “I remember that cop. I turned and let him have it in the chest. He didn’t even wobble, but he shot back at me. I wasn’t hit, though, and I beat it around behind the house. When I got to the other side, I peeked around the corner and saw the cop I shot coming after me. I let fly at him again, and ran behind another house. When I looked again he was still following me. There was blood running all over the front of his coat then, but he was still following me. God, that guy was a real man.”

“Ever think about his family? Shaknahyi had a wife, you know. He had three kids.”

Jawarski stared at me, and another crazy grin spread slowly across his face. “Fuck “em,” he said.

I stood up and took three steps. Jawarski raised his eyebrows at me, inviting me to come closer. As he stood, I tossed him the static gun. He fumbled it against his chest with his left hand, and I pulled my fist back and cracked him in the corner of his mouth. Then I grabbed his right wrist tightly and turned outward, prepared to break the bones if I had to. He grunted and dropped the automatic. “I’m not Hajjar,” I snarled. “I’m not that goddamn Catavina. You’re not gonna buy me off, and right now I’m in no mood to worry about protecting your civil rights. Understand?” I bent and scooped up his gun. I’d been wrong. It was loaded.

Jawarski put a hand to his lips. When he pulled it away, his fingers were bloody. “You been watching those holoshows again, buddy,” he said. He grinned, still not terribly worried. “You’re no better’n Hajjar. You’re no better’n me, you want to know the truth. You’d put a round right through me, if you thought you could get away with it.”

“You’re right about that,” I said.

“But you think there’s too many like Hajjar already. And it ain’t even that Hajjar’s a rotten cop. He ain’t. He’s just acting the way they all act, the way everybody expects him to act, the way he’s supposed to act. It ain’t wrong if everybody knows about it ahead of time. I’ll tell you a secret: You’re gonna end up just like Shaknahyi. You’re gonna help little old ladies across the street until you’re old enough to retire, and then some young son of a bitch like me is gonna plant you in the ground.” He reached his little finger into his ear and jiggled it a few times. “And then,” he said thoughtfully, “after you’re gone, the young son of a bitch is gonna jam your wife.”

My face felt hard and tense, frozen into a cold stare. I raised the pistol calmly and held it steadily, pointed between Jawarski’s eyes. “Watch it,” he said scornfully. “That ain’t a toy.”

I grabbed back the static pistol and put it in my pocket. I motioned for Jawarski to sit down, and I returned to my seat on the couch. We looked at each other for a few seconds. I was breathing hard; Jawarski looked like he was enjoying himself.