I nodded, knowing that I'd have to wait for her to work her way up through the chain of command. It didn't take long. In a few minutes, Lieutenant Hajjar himself came huffing into the data library. "What do you think you're doing, Audran?" he shouted. His expression was a black scowl.

I held out Papa's letter. I wasn't about to stand up or try to explain myself. The letter could speak for me, and I felt like exerting a little dominance. Hajjar needed to be put in his place every once in a while.

He snatched the paper from my hand and read 'through it once and then again. "What's this?" he said harshly.

"It's a letter. From you know who, you've already read it."

He glared at me and crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball. "This letter don't cut it with me, Audran. Not at all.

And what are you doing at large? You were formally ex-iled. I should take you into custody right now."

I shook my finger at him and smiled. "Nuh uh, Hajjar. The amir's granted us an appeal, and you know it."

"Still," he said.

"Still," I said, taking the crumpled paper and holding it against his temple. "You really don't think this letter cuts it, huh?"

"No way." He sounded much less sure this time.

"Well," I said calmly, "Papa has plenty of people who could cut you."

Hajjar licked his lips. "Well, what the hell do you want, then?"

I smiled in a completely phony friendly way. "I just want to use this data deck for a minute or two."

"I suppose that could be arranged. What are you try-ing to dig up?"

I spread my hands. "I want to clear our names, of course. I want to find out what you know about Khalid Maxwell."

A look of fear came and went in his eyes. "I can't allow that," he said. Now his voice shook noticeably. "It's classi-fied police business."

I laughed. "I'm classified police," I said. "At least for the moment."

"No," he said, "I won't allow it. That case is closed."

"I'm reopening it." I shook the crumpled paper at him.

"Right," he said, "go ahead. But there are going to be repercussions from this. I'm warning you."

"I'm hoping for repercussions, Hajjar. I advise you to get out of the way of them."

He stared at me for a few seconds. Then he said, "Yallah, your mother must've been a syphilitic camel, Audran, and your father was a Christian bastard."

"Close," I said, and I turned my back on him and continued to murmur commands to the data deck. I sup-pose Hajjar stalked away.

The first thing I did was call up the file on Khalid Maxwell. I didn't learn much. Evidently, the file had been tampered with and edited until there was very little infor-mation left. I did find out that Maxwell had been with the police force for four years, that he'd earned a commenda-tion for bravery, and that he'd been killed while off-duty.

According to the cop computer, he died while interceding in a violent argument between Friedlander Bey and my-self in front of Maxwell's house at 23 Shams Alley.

That was nonsense, of course. I didn't even know where Shams Alley was; I was sure it wasn't in the Budayeen.

Maxwell was the second police officer from Hajjar's precinct to be killed during the year. That didn't look good for Hajjar, but of course it looked even worse for poor Maxwell.

I had the data deck print out the file, and then I passed a little time by poking into other files. Lieutenant Hajjar's dossier gave even less information than it had the last time I looked. All mention of his own difficulties with the force's Internal Affairs Departmentliad been erased. There wasn't much left but his name, age, and address.

My own file listed me as the killer of Khalid Maxwell (released pending appeal). That reminded me that the clock was running, and there were only a few weeks left of my freedom. It would be very hard to prove my innocence -and Papa's-from inside a prison cell or with my head 'on the chopping block. I decided to stir things up a little and see what happened.

When I left the station house, I found Kmuzu sitting in the car a little farther up Walid al-Akbar Street. I got into the back seat and told him to drive me to the Budayeen's eastern gate. When we got there, I sent him home because Ididn't know how long my business would take. When Kmuzu objected, I told him I could get a cab to come home. He frowned and said he'd rather wait for me, but I just told him in a firm voice to do what I said.

I took with me the portable datalink unit Friedlander Bey and I were marketing, and as I walked up the Street toward the Caf6 Solace, my phone rang. I undipped it from my belt and said, "Hello."

"Audran?" asked a nasal voice that sounded fat with disgust.

"Yeah," I said, "who is this?"

"Kenneth. Calling on behalf of Shaykh Reda Abu Adil."

That explained the disgust; the feeling was definitely mutual. "Yeah, Kenny, what do you want."

There was a brief pause. "My name is Kenneth, not Kenny. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that in mind."

I grinned. "Sure, pal. Now what's behind this call?"

"Shaykh Reda has just heard that you're digging around in the Khalid Maxwell case. Don't."

,The news sure had traveled fast. "Don't?"

"Right," said Kenneth. "Just don't. Shaykh Reda is concerned for your safety, as you are an officer in the Jaish, and he fears what might happen to you if you con-tinue this investigation."

I laughed without humor. "I'll tell you what will hap-pen if I don't continue the investigation: Papa and I will lose our appeal and we'll be put to death."

"We understand that, Audran. If you want to save your necks, there are two ways to proceed, the right way and the wrong way. The right way is to establish a bullet-proof alibi for yourselves the night of the murder. The wrong way is to go on doing what you're doing."

"That's great, Ken, but to tell the truth, I can't even remember what I did on the night in question."

"It's Kenneth," he growled, just before he hung up. I grinned again and put my phone back on my belt.

I found Jacques and Mahmoud playing dominoes at the Cafe Solace. I pulled up a chair to their table and watched for a while. Finally, old Ibrahim came and asked if I wanted anything. I ordered a White Death, and Mah-moud looked at me curiously. "How long you been here, Marid?" he asked. "We been playing dominoes and I never saw you come up."

"Not long," I told him. I turned to my other friend. "Jacques," I said, "you ready to start pushing data this afternoon?"

He gave me a look which said he regretted ever agree-ing to help me out. "Don't you have more important things to do?" he said. "I mean, like clearing your name and reputation."

I nodded. "Don't worry, I've started taking care of that, too."

"We heard," said Mahmoud.

"The rumor on the Street is that you're looking for someone to pin Maxwell's murder on," said Jacques.

"Instead of proving where you were the night of the crime," said Mahmoud. "You're going about it all wrong.

Ydu're trying to do it the hard way."

"That's just what Abu Adil's current Bendable Benny told me," I said slowly. "What a coincidence."

"Kenneth told you that?" said Mahmoud. "Well, see, he's probably right."

' I didn't have any specific questions to ask them, so I changed the subject. "Ready to go, Jacques?" I said.

"Well, Marid, to tell the truth, my stomach hurts to-day. How 'bout tomorrow afternoon?"

"Oh, you'll be on your own tomorrow," I said, smiling, "but you're also going with me today."

I waited patiently until Mahmoud won the domino game, and then as Jacques settled up his wager. "It's not starting out to be a good day for me," said Jacques. He was well dressed, as usual, but he wore that miffy Chris-tian look that all his friends hated so much. He looked as if he wanted to go somewhere and start a new life under another name.

I looked at him from the comer of my eye and stifled a smile. He was so upset. "What's wrong, Jacques?" I asked.

His upper lip pulled back in disdain. "I'll tell you one thing, Marid," he said. "This job is beneath me. It's not appropriate for me to act like a ... a common sales- man.

I couldn't help laughing. "Don't think of yourself as a salesman, if that's your problem. Truthfully, you're not.

You're much more than that. Try to see the whole picture, O Excellent One."

Jacques didn't look convinced. "I am looking at the big picture. I see myself going into a bar or a club, taking out my wares, and trying to wangle money out of the proprietor. That's retail sales. It's demeaning to someone of my blood. Have I ever told you that I'm three-quarters Euro-pean?"

I sighed. He'd told us nearly every day for the last seven years. "Haven't you ever wondered who works re-tail sales in Europe?"

"Americans," said Jacques, shrugging.

I rubbed my aching forehead. "Forget sales. You won't be a salesman. You'll be a Data Placement Special-ist. And when you get rolling, you'll be promoted to Infor-mation Retrieval Engineer. With a suitable increase in your commission percentage."

Jacques glared. "You can't trick me, Marid," he said.

"That's the great part! I don't have to trick you. I've got enough power these days to twist your arm and make you delighted to help me."

Jacques gave a short, humorless laugh. "My arm is untwistable, O Shaykh. You're still street scum, just like the rest of us."I shrugged. "That may well be true, my Christian friend, but I'm street scum with Habib and Labib at my command."

"Who are they?"

"The Stones That Speak," I said calmly. I saw the color go out of Jacques's face. Everyone in the Budayeen knew about Papa's huge bodyguards, but I was one of the few privileged to know their individual names. Of course, I still couldn't tell which one was which, but that was all right because they always traveled together.

Jacques spat on the ground in front of me. "It's true what they say about power corrupting," he said bitterly.

"You're wrong, Jacques," I said in a quiet voice. "I wouldn't threaten one of my friends. I don't need that power.

I'm only counting on you to return a favor. Didn't I cover Fuad's check for you? Didn't you agree to help me?"

He winced. "Yes, well, if it's a matter of honor, well then, of course I'm happy to return the favor,"

I clapped him on the back. "I knew I could count on you."

"Anytime, Marid." But the look on his face told me his stomach still bothered him.

We arrived at Frenchy's club, which was across the Street and up a block from my own. Frenchy was a huge, burly, black-bearded guy who looked like he ought to be rolling barrels into a warehouse in some sunny French seaport. He was as tough a joker as I've ever met. Distur-bances didn't last long in Frenchy's place.

"Where y'at, Marid?" called Dalia, Frenchy's barmaid.

"Just fine, Dalia. Frenchy around?"

"He's in back. I'll go get him." She tossed her bar towel down and disappeared into the back office. There weren't very many customers, but it was still early in the day.

"Can I buy you a drink?" I asked Jacques while we waited.

"The Lord doesn't approve of liquor," he said. "You should know that."

"I do," I said. "I do know that God disapproves. But He's never said anything directly to me about it."

"Oh no? What do you call vomiting all over yourself? What do you call blackouts? What do you call getting your face smashed in because you were so drunk you said the wrong thing to the wrong person? And you shouldn't be blasphemous."

I couldn't take him seriously. "I've seen you drink your share, too."

Jacques nodded vigorously. "Yes, my friend, but then I go to confession and do my penance and then everything's all right again."

I was saved from further religious exegesis by Frenchy, who showed up in the nick of time. "What's happening?"

he said, taking the bar stool to my right.

"Well, Frenchy," I said, "it's nice to see you, and I'm glad I'm still welcome in your club, but we don't really have time to sit here and chat. I want to sell you some-thing."

"You want to sell me something, noraf," he said in his gruff voice. "Wait a minute. I'm impossible to scam when I'm sober."

"I thought you stopped drinking," I said. "On account of your stomach."

"Well, I started again," said Frenchy. He signaled to his barmaid, and Dalia brought him an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker. I don't know what it is, but most of these ex-seamen won't drink anything but Johnnie Walker. I first noticed it over in Jo-Mama's club among the Greek merchant sailors, and the two Filipino bars on Seventh Street.

Frenchy twisted open the bottle and filled a tumbler half full. "Gonna give you a fair chance," said Frenchy, gulping down the whiskey and refilling the tum-bler.

"Let me have a gin and bingara," I told the barmaid.

"Want some lime juice in that?" Dalia asked.

I smiled at her. "You never forget."

She shuddered in disgust. "How could I?" she mut-tered. "What about you, Jacques?"

"You've got that Ecuadorian beer on draft? I'll have one." Dalia nodded and drew Jacques his beer.

Frenchy threw down a second glass of whiskey and belched. "Eh bien, Marid," he said, rubbing his thick beard, "what's in the suitcase?"