Pualani went on. “And he comes up to me and he goes, ‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’ So I look at him and I’m like, ‘Off. Fuck off.’”

Yasmin snickered. “Cut him down, girlfriend,” she said. She raised her nearly empty glass. “After hours we don’t have to drink that lousy cheap champagne. Rocky, can I have another one of these, please?”

Rocky nodded and poured a peppermint schnapps for Yasmin. Nobody said anything else for a while. It wasn’t starting out to be much of a party.

And then Kmuzu came in with Indihar, my wife. They were carrying several large packages. Rocky and Pualani were glad to see them; both Lily and Yasmin gave Indihar some sour looks. Neither of them had been pleased when Friedlander Bey had, in his usual manner, provided me with a wife. It didn’t make any difference to Lily or Yasmin that Indihar and I hadn’t been pleased, either.

“What’s all that?” I asked.

“Put it down on the bar, Kmuzu,” Indihar said. She set her packages down and came up to me. “I thought I’d help get the party started. Looks like it needs starting.”

“Wow!” Yasmin said, investigating one of the packages. “Fried chicken! Where’s this from?”

“NOSFFF,” Indihar said. That was the New Orleans Soul and Fast Food Franchise, not far from the club. “I only got extra spicy.”

“That’s okay by me,” Yasmin said. If anything could take her mind off her semisecret jealousy, it was free food.

“What else is there?” Pualani asked.

“Well, I have about fifteen kinds of sushi and sashimi from Kiyoshi’s, and about a ton of couscous from Meloul’s, and a hundred fried dumplings from Martyrs of Democracy.”

“That’s perfect,” I said. I really love pot stickers.

Indihar glanced at me. “I got a hundred fried dumplings. Fifty of them are for Marîd, the other fifty are for everybody else. And there’s meze from that new Turkish place on Sixth Street.”

“What’s meze?” Rocky asked.

“Lots of different kinds of dishes that you’re supposed to sample while drinking,” I said.

“Like appetizers?” Yasmin said. “Sometimes I go into Martyrs of Democracy and have like six different appetizers for supper.”

“Then you should like this,” Indihar said. “There are another few packages still outside. Kmuzu, would you bring them in for me, please?”

“Yes, immediately, yaa Sitti.”

Indihar gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy yourself, Marîd, but don’t have too much fun. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

“I know, I remember.” I wasn’t happy about her talking to me that way. We were married, but we weren’t that married.

“I’m going to go now. Have a good time. It was nice seeing all of you again.”

“Indihar,” Rocky said, “you’re not going to stay?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got to get home to the kids.’

“The kids should be asleep already,” I said. “Anyway, I’m paying Senalda to give you a hand with them. Let her watch the kids tonight. Stay a little while.”

“I’ll go with you to the hospital tomorrow, Marîd. Good night, everybody.”

After she and Kmuzu left the club, Yasmin turned and said, “Well, that just means more fried chicken for the rest of us.”

“Son of a bitch, Yasmin,” Rocky said, “that’s cold.” Yasmin just laughed and flung her long black hair over her shoulder.

I’m sure it wasn’t a coincidence that the first guests to show up — right after the food arrived — were Jacques, Mahmoud, and Saied the Half-Hajj. These guys had been my best friends in the Budayeen, although in recent times events had reduced them from three to a total of no more than one-half of a best friend among them.

Jacques was three-quarters European and he made sure everyone knew it. He was a snob, and I didn’t like to be around him very much, but I’d put him to work in one of Friedlander Bey’s commercial ventures. Thanks to me, Jacques was making some good money and getting a little influence of his own, so now he showed me more respect. That was very generous of him, as he still found ways to remind me that I’d always be a full twenty-five percent less French than he.

Mahmoud had not been born a man. As a matter of fact, I can remember him as a slender, rather pretty girl with big, dark eyes, dancing at Jo-Mama’s Greek club some years ago. Now he weighed a lot more, had developed a mean, cruel personality, and still thought no one knew he worked for Friedlander Bey’s rival and enemy, Shaykh Reda Abu Adil. It was okay with me if Mahmoud believed he was fooling me. It was that much easier to keep a close watch on him.

Saied was actually a friend, but the kind of friend you wished lived in, say, Transoxiana — the kind of friend who sent you a letter every ten years or so, and you never had to deal with up close and personal. We called him the Half-Hajj because he had once set out on the holy pilgrimage to Makkah, got a brilliant idea for making a ton of money in a short amount of time, quit the pilgrimage and headed back home, and forgot the brilliant idea before he got back here. He’s so scatterbrained that I rarely saw him when he wasn’t wearing a personality module with a better short-term memory built in.

These three hung out together all the time. In simpler days — when I was still living on the street and my time was my own — I hung out with them, too. We used to sit in the Cafe Solace and play cards and gossip. I don’t get to do that much anymore.

The Half-Hajj had brought a date — some guy with light brown hair and blue eyes, tall but not very muscular, and good-looking enough, I suppose. My eyebrows raised, because I knew that Saied had been keeping time with the American kid everyone called Abdul-Hassan, whom he’d inherited when the boy’s previous protector was killed.

I knew better than to say a word, though. In the Budayeen, you never ask personal questions, not even something as innocent as “How’s the wife and kids?” Since the last time you saw them, they could have been sold into slavery or traded for a nice Esmeraldas holo system.

I went to greet them. “You just missed Indihar,” I said. “She brought the food and left.”

“Marîd,” Jacques said, “the drinks are on the house, right?”

That was so goddamn typical. “Yes, Jacques,” I said, “the drinks are free.” He smiled and went to the bar. I glanced at Saied, who just gave me a little shrug.

“It’s good that you’re making the hajj,” Mahmoud said.

“As if the religion means a copper fiq to you,” Saied said.

“Well,” I said, “it’s mostly Friedlander Bey’s idea.”

“It usually is,” Jacques said. He had come back carrying what looked like a tequila mockingbird. He’d probably had to tell Rocky how to make one.

“Papa’s starting to hear the calendar pages whisper,” I said. “He wants to go on the pilgrimage before he gets too old.”

“Ha,” Mahmoud said, “he’ll outlive us all.”

“He’ll certainly outlive some of us, I’m sure.” I tried to look completely innocent when I said that. I don’t even know if Mahmoud understood what I meant.

Saied reached out and tapped me on the shoulder with a forefinger. “I really should introduce you. Marîd, darling, this is my new friend, Ratomir. He’s in the city on business.”

“It’s Radomil, actually.” He gave me a brief, empty smile. “Good to meet you. You own this club?” He was obviously European, but he was speaking perfect Arabic. I took it for granted that he had an Arabic-language daddy chipped in.

“I own half of it,” I said. “Get a drink, have some food.”

“Let me get you something, sweetheart,” the Half-Hajj said. “What are we drinking?”

“Beer is fine,” Radomil said. Saied nodded and went to get the beer. A couple of things startled me: First, I don’t believe I’d ever heard Saied use any term of endearment on any occasion whatsoever; and second, he never fetched for anyone. That wasn’t his image, and he cared a lot about his image.

“It’s his new moddy,” Mahmoud said, knowing what I was thinking.