This is not even to mention the disapproving expression on Youssef’s face last Tuesday, when he opened the great wooden front door at home. Or my slave, Kmuzu. Both of them knew enough not to say a word out loud, but I got the full treatment from their attitudes, particularly when Kmuzu started slamming down the breakfast things half an hour later. As if I could stand to eat. All I wanted to do was collapse and sleep, but no one in the household would allow it. It was part of my punishment.

So that’s how this adventure began. I reluctantly ate a little breakfast, ignored the large quantity of orders, receipts, ledgers, and other correspondence on my desk, and sat back in a padded leather chair wishing my mortal headache would go away.

Now, when I first had my brain wired, I was given a few experimental features. I can chip in a device that makes my body burn alcohol faster than the normal ounce an hour; last night had been a contest between me and my hardware. The liquor won. I could also chip in a pain-blocking daddy, but it wouldn’t make me any more sober. For now, in the real world, I was as sick as a plague-stricken wharf rat.

I watched a holoshow about a sub-Saharan reforestation program, with the sound turned off. Before it was over, I lied to myself that I felt just a tiny bit better. I even pretended to act friendly toward Kmuzu. I forgave him, and I forgave myself for what I’d done the night before. I promised both of us that I’d never do it again.

I laughed; Kmuzu didn’t. He turned his back and walked out of the room without saying a word.

It was obvious to me that it wasn’t a good day to spend around the house. I decided to go back to the Budayeen and open my nightclub at noon, a little early for the day shift. Even if I had to sit there by myself for a couple of hours, it would be better company than I had at home.

About 12:15, Pualani, the beautiful real girl, came in. She was early for work, but she had always been one of the most dependable of the five dancers on the day shift. I said hello, and before she went to the dressing room she sat down beside me at the bar. “You hear what happened to crazy Vi, who works by Big Al’s Old Chicago?”

“No,” I said. I can’t keep up with what goes on with every girl, deb, and sexchange in the Budayeen.

“She turned up dead yesterday. They say they found her body all drained of blood, and she had two small puncture marks on her neck. It looks like some kind of vampire jumped on her or something.” Pualani shuddered.

I closed my eyes and rubbed my throbbing temples. “There are no such things as vampires,” I said. “There are no afrits, no djinn, no werewolves, no succubae, and no trolls. There has to be some other explanation for Vi.” I recognized the woman’s name, but I couldn’t picture her face.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, a murderer with an elaborate scheme to throw suspicion on a supernatural suspect, maybe.”

“I don’t think so,” Pualani said. “I mean, everything just fits.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

Pualani went into the back to change into her working outfit. I reached over the bar and filled a tall glass with ice, then poured myself a carbonated soft drink.

Chiriga, my partner, arrived not long after. She owned half the club and acted as daytime barmaid. I was glad to see her because it meant that I didn’t have to watch the place anymore. I rested my head on my arms and let the hangover headache do its throbbing worst.

Nothing felt fatal until someone shook my shoulder. I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away. I sat up and saw Yasmin, one of the dancers. She was brushing her glistening black hair. “You hear about Vi?” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“You know I warned Vi about staying out of that alley. She used to go home that way every night. That’s what she gets for working at the Old Chicago and going home that way. I must’ve told her a dozen times.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. “Yasmin, the poor girl didn’t deserve to die just because she walked home through an alley.”

Yasmin cocked her head to one side and looked at me. “Yeah, I know, but still. You hear they think it was Sheba who killed her?”

That was news to me. “Sheba?” I asked. “She worked here maybe eight or nine months ago? That Sheba?”

Yasmin nodded. “She’s over by Fatima and Nassir’s these days, and she belongs there.”

Chiri wiped the bar beside me and tossed a coaster in front of Yasmin. “Why do you think it was Sheba who killed crazy Vi?” Chiri asked.

‘Cause,” Yasmin said in a loud whisper. “Vi was killed by a vampire, right? And you never see Sheba in the daytime. Never. Have you? Think about it. Let me have some peppermint schnapps, Chiri.”

I glanced at Chiri, but she only shrugged. I turned back to Yasmin. “First everybody’s sure Vi was killed by a vampire, and now you’re sure that the vampire is Sheba.”

Yasmin raised both hands and tried to look innocent. “I’m not making any of this up,” she said. She scooped up her peppermint schnapps and went to sit beside Pualani. No customers had come in yet.

“Well,” I said to Chiri, “what do you think?”

Chiri’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t think anything. Do I have to?” Chiri’s the only person in the Budayeen with any sense. And that includes me.

The afternoon passed slowly. The other three dancers, Lily, Kitty, and Baby, came in when they felt like it. We made a little money, sold a few drinks, the girls hustled some champagne cocktails. I listened to the same damn Sikh propaganda songs on the holo system and watched my employees parade their talents.

It was getting on toward dinnertime when Lily and Yasmin got into an argument with two poor European marks. I strolled over toward their table, not because I care anything for marks — I generally don’t — but because a bad enough argument might send the two guys out into the Street and into somebody else’s club.

“Marîd, listen —” Lily said.

I held up a hand, interrupting her. “Are you two gentlemen enjoying yourselves?” I asked.

They had puzzled looks on their faces, but they nodded. Some people are born marks, others achieve markdom, and some people have markdom thrust upon them.

“What’s the problem?” I said in a warning voice. “I can hear you all the way across the bar.”

“We were talking about Vi,” Lily said. “We were warning Lazaro and Karoly to stay out of that alley.”

“We were going to suggest a nice, safe place where we could go,” Yasmin said. She tried to look innocent again. Yasmin hasn’t been innocent since her baby teeth fell out.

“Look, you two,” I said, meaning my two fun-loving hustlers, “let me clear this up right now. I’ll call the morgue and find out what they know about crazy Vi.”

“You’re gonna call the morgue?” Lily said. She was suddenly very interested.

“Get back to work,” I said. I went back to my seat at the bar. I unclipped the phone from my belt and murmured the commcode of the Budayeen’s morgue. The medical examiner there, Dr. Besharati, had helped me with a couple of other matters over the years. He was normal enough for a guy who worked surrounded by dead bodies all day. He liked to tootle a jazz trumpet in between autopsies. That was his kick.

I got one of his assistants. The coroner was busy putting brains into jars or something. “Yeah? Medical examiner’s office.”

“I wanted to get some information about one of the, ah, deceased currently in your custody.”

“You a family member?”

I blinked. “Sure,” I said.

“Okay, then. What you want?”

“Young woman, killed last night in an alley in the Budayeen. Her name was Vi.”

“Yeah?” He wasn’t making it any easier for me.

“We were just wondering if you have determined the cause of death yet.”

There was a long pause while the assistant went off to investigate. When he returned he said, “Well, we ain’t got to her yet, but she died on account she was murdered. Slashed throat, heavy loss of blood. That’ll do it every time.”