George Alec Effinger - Marid and the Trail of Blood.pdf

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Marîd and the Trail of Blood (v1.1)
George Alec Effinger, 1995
There is a saying: "The Budayeen hides from the light." You can interpret that any way you
like, but I'm dissolute enough to know exactly what it means. There's a certain time of day
that always makes me feel as if my blackened soul were just then under the special scrutiny
of Allah in Paradise.
It happens in the gray winter mornings just at dawn, when I've spent the entire night
drinking in some awful hellhole. When I finally decide it's time to go home and I step outside,
instead of the cloaking forgiveness of darkness, there is bright, merciless sun shining on my
aching head.
It makes me feel filthy and a little sick, as if I'd been wallowing in a dismal gutter all night. I
know I can get pretty goddamn wiped out, but I don't believe I've ever sunk to wallowing; at
least, I don't remember it if I did. And all the merchants setting up their stalls in the souks, all
the men and women rising for morning prayers, they all glare at me with that special
expression: they know exactly where I've been. They know I'm drunk and irredeemable. They
give freely of contempt that they've been saving for a long time for someone as depraved and
worthless as me.
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 sex-change 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 succubi, 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 a time. "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."
I grimaced. I could only hope they'd be a little gentler with Vi's real family. "Could you tell
me, were there any puncture wounds on the throat?"
"Told you we ain't got to her yet. Don't know. Call again tomorrow maybe. We ought to
have her on the slab by then. Do you need to come watch?"
I just hung up after leaving my commcode. I was sure that Lily would have happily viewed
the autopsy, but even if I couldn't quite remember who Vi was, she probably deserved better
treatment than that.
The two European marks got up and left the club about a half hour later. Yasmin came and
leaned against the bar near me. She was brushing her hair again. "What jerks," she said.
They're all jerks, is the general opinion.
"I called about Vi," I said. "No vampire. She was just murdered in the alley."
"Huh," Lily said dubiously. "Like she could bite herself in her own neck."
I spread my hands. "They haven't confirmed the business about the puncture wounds.
You're just exaggerating all of this way out of proportion."
 
Yasmin looked at me knowingly. "You'll see," she said. She turned to Lily, who nodded her
agreement. Dealing with my employees is sometimes very hard on my nerves. I thought about
having my first drink of the day, but I didn't. I went out to get something to eat instead.
Now, Chiriga's is about halfway between the eastern gate of the Budayeen and the
western end -- the cemetery. There are plenty of places to eat along the Street, and on this
particular occasion I decided to head toward Kiyoshi's. I hadn't walked far before I saw the
Lamb Lady.
"Oh boy," I muttered. Safiyya the Lamb Lady is a regular feature of the Budayeen, one of
our favorite odd characters. She's harmless, but she can talk at you so long you're sure you'll
never get away. She lives on money people give her and she sleeps wherever anybody will let
her. I've let her stay in my club a few times. She's completely honest, just addled a bit. That's
why I was surprised to see her wearing a lot of expensive-looking jewelry. She had on eight or
ten silver rings, two silver necklaces, silver earrings, and silver bracelets and bangles from her
wrists halfway to her elbows.
"Where'd you get all that, Safiyya?" I asked.
"Watch out for the lamb," she said in a hoarse voice. She used to have a lamb that
followed her around the Budayeen, but it was accidentally killed. Now Safiyya has an
imaginary lamb. I'd almost bumped into it.
"Sorry," I said.
"Isn't this nice stuff?" she said. She jingled her bracelets. "I found it all in the trash."
"In the trash?" The silver she was wearing must have been worth four or five hundred kiam.
"Where?"
"Oh, it's all gone now," Safiyya said. "I took it. I'll show you, though, if you want to see." I
followed her because I was curious. She led me to the back of a whitewashed, two-story
apartment building, where four trash cans had been upended. Garbage was strewn all over the
narrow passageway between buildings, but we didn't find any more jewelry.
When Safiyya started showing off all this silver, she would make herself a target for
robbery, or worse. I decided to mention this to one of my connections in the police
department; they'd keep an eye on Safiyya. With Crazy Vi's unsolved murder the night before,
I guessed there'd be a stronger police presence in the Budayeen tonight. I'd hate to see the
Lamb Lady become the killer's second victim.
However, the rest of the day passed quietly. Nothing happened to Safiyya, and nothing
happened to me. I went home, trimmed my beard, took a long shower, and sat down at my
desk to get some of my paperwork done. After a while, Kmuzu interrupted me.
"The master of the house wishes you to meet with him in an hour, yaa Sidi ," he said.
I nodded. The master of the house was my great-grandfather, Friedlander Bey, who
controlled much of the illicit activities in the city. He was a very powerful man, so powerful
that he also found it profitable to control the rise and fall of certain nearby nations. It was like
a hobby with him.
Forty-five minutes later I was dressed the way Papa liked me to dress, standing at the
door to his office. It was guarded by Habib and Labib, Papa's huge, silent bodyguards. I wasn't
going in until they felt like letting me go in.
Tariq, Friedlander Bey's secretary and valet, came out and noticed me. "I hope you haven't
been waiting long," he said.
I shrugged. "I've just been watching these two guys. You know, they don't move at all.
They don't even breathe. How do they manage that?"
Tariq did the smart thing and ignored me. He ushered me into Papa's inner office.
Friedlander Bey reclined on a lacquered divan. He indicated that I should seat myself across
from him. Between us was a table loaded down with trays of food and fruit, juices and silver
coffee things. We chatted informally while we drank the customary cups of coffee. Then,
suddenly, Papa was all business.
 
"You are spending too much time in the Budayeen," he said.
"But O Shaykh, you gave me the nightclub -- "
He raised a hand. I shut up. "There are more important matters. Representatives from the
Empire of Parthia will be arriving tomorrow. They wish our support in their expansion into
Kush."
"I didn't even know they -- "
"I do not believe we will give them what they desire. Indeed, I think it is time that Parthia
be, shall we say, disunited."
What could I do but agree? We discussed these weighty affairs for some time. At last,
Papa relaxed. He took an apple and a small paring knife. "You called the medical examiner
today, my darling," he said.
I was astonished. "Yes, O Shaykh."
"You are interested in the death of the young dancer. It is of no importance."
Maybe it's because I used to be a poor street kid myself, but the lives and deaths of the
people of the Budayeen matter more to me.
Friedlander Bey went on. "Your employees believe in vampires." He was amused. "Lieutenant
Giragosian of the police does not." Here his amusement ended. "You will not pursue this
further. It is a waste of time, and it is unseemly for you to concern yourself with what is,
after all, chiefly a Christian myth."
Crazy Vi's body in the morgue was no myth. And in the Maghreb, the far western part of
North Africa where I'd grown up, there are still stories of the Gôla. She is a female djinn, very
big and strong, sometimes with goat's feet and covered with hair like an unshorn sheep. Her
trick is that she speaks sweetly and gently to people, and then kills them and drinks their
blood. The Gôla is usually described as having those familiar long, fierce canine teeth and eyes
like blazing fire. Still, I wasn't about to mention any of this to my benefactor.
"You and I will share luncheon tomorrow with the Parthians," Papa said. "Forget about the
murdered woman, your nightclub, and the Budayeen for a while."
"As you wish, O Shaykh," I said. Yeah, sure, I thought.
I returned to my suite and relaxed with a detective novel by Lutfy Gad, my favorite
Palestinian mystery writer. He'd been dead for decades, so there were no new Gad books, but
the old ones were so good I could enjoy them again and again. This one was called The Deep
Cradle, and if I remembered correctly, it was the one in which Gad's dark and dangerous
detective, al-Qaddani, ended up in Breulandy with almost every bone in his body broken.
It's amazing, sometimes, how resilient those paperback detectives are. I wish I knew how
they did it.
The phone on my belt rang. That meant the call was probably from one of my disreputable
friends and associates; otherwise, the desk phone would have rung. I unclipped it and
murmured, "Marhaba."
"Marîd? It's Yasmin, and guess what?"
She actually waited for me to guess. I didn't bother.
"You know that boys' club of yours?" she said. I have a small army of kids who look out for
me in the Budayeen, watch me and make sure I'm not being followed by the cops or anything.
I throw them a few kiam now and then.
"What about them?" I asked.
"One of 'em's dead and it looks like Sheba all over again. Kid's throat is torn open and
before you say anything, I saw the goddamn puncture marks this time, like from fangs. So
you're wrong."
It bothered me that her notion about Sheba was more important to her than the death of
that poor boy. "Who was it?" I asked. "Anybody you know?"
 

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