I climbed into the car, and Kmuzu turned to look at me. "Are you all right, yaa SidiP" he asked.

"More trouble," I grunted. "There's a branch of the Bank of the Dunes around the corner on the boulevard, about ten blocks down. I need to see someone there."

"Yes, yaa Sidi."

As we made our way through the congested traffic, I wondered if Hajjar really could pin the imam's murder on me.

After all, I did-have the opportunity, as well as a kind of bent motive. Was that enough to build a legal case? Just the fact that, except for the murderer himself, I was probably the last to see Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq alive?

My next thought was sobering. Hajjar didn't need to build a tight legal case. Starting tomorrow, there were going to be two hundred thousand anguished Muslims mourning the brutal murder of their religious leader. All somebody had to do was whisper in enough ears that I was responsible, and I'd pay for the crime without ever standing before an Islamic judge. And I wouldn't even be given a chance to speak in my own defense.

I'd stopped caring about the rain. With this latest de-velopment of Hajjar's, I'd even stopped caring about the twenty-four hundred loam. I stepped into the bank and looked around. There was soft music playing, and the faint fragrance of roses on the air. The lobby of the bank was all glass and stainless steel. To the far right was a row of human tellers, and then a row of automatic teller ma-chines. Across from me were the desks of several bank officers. I went to the receptionist and waited for her to acknowledge my presence.

"Can I help you, sir?" she said in a bored tone of voice.

"I got a call earlier today from a Mr. Kirk Adwan-"

"Mr. Adwan's with a customer right now. Take a seat and he'll be right with you."

"Uh huh," I said. I slouched on a sofa and rested my chin on my chest. I wished again that I had my pillcase with me, or my rack of moddies. It would've been good to escape into somebody else's personality for a while.

Finally, the customer with Adwan got up and left, and I stood and crossed the carpet. Adwan was busy signing papers. "I'll be right with you," he said. "Take a seat."

I sat. I just wanted to get this stupid business over with.

Adwan finished his busywork, looked up blankly, let my face register for a split second, then flashed me his official smile. "Now," he said in a charming voice, "how may I help you?""You called me earlier today. My name is Marid Audran. Some confusion over a twenty-four-hundred-kiam check."

Adwan's smile vanished. "Yes, I remember," he said. His voice was very cold. Mr. Adwan didn't like me, I'm afraid.

"Mr. Farouk Hussein reported the cashier's check stolen. When it came through the bank, there was only his name on the front, and yours on the back."

"I didn't steal the check, Mr. Adwan. I didn't deposit it."

He nodded. "Certainly, sir. If you say so. Neverthe-less, as I mentioned on the phone, if you're unwilling to repay the money, we'll have to turn this matter over for prosecution. I'm afraid that in the city, this sort of grand theft is punished harshly. Very harshly."

"I fully intend to repay the bank," I said. I reached inside my suit coat and took out my wallet. I had about five thousand kiam in cash with me. I sorted out twenty-four hundred and slid the money across the desk.

Adwan scooped it up, counted it, and excused himself. He got up and went through a door marked No Admit-tance.

I waited. I wondered what was going to happen next. Would Adwan come back with a troop of armed bank guards? Would he strip me of my ATM and credit cards? Would he lead all the other bank employees in a chorus of public denunciation? I didn't fuckin' care.

When Adwan did return to his desk, he sat down and folded his hands in front of him. "There," he said, "we're glad you chose to take care of this matter promptly."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. "Say," I said, "how do I know that there was ever a stolen check? I mean, you called me up, you told me the check was stolen, I came in here and handed you twenty-four hun-dred kiam, you got up and disappeared, and when you came back the money was gone. How do I know you just tn't deposit it in your own account?" ' He blinked at me for a few seconds. Then he opened a desk drawer, removed a thin file in a cardboard cover, and glanced through it. He looked me straight in the eye and murmured a commcode into his telephone. "Here," he said. "Talk to Hussein yourself."

I waited until the man answered. "Hello?" I said.

"Hello. Who is this?"

"My name is ... well, never mind. I'm sitting here in a branch of the Bank of the Dunes. Somehow, a check with your name on it ended up in my possession."

"You stole it," said Hussein gruffly.

"I wasn't the one who stole it," I said. "One of my business associates was trying to do a favor for a friend, and asked me to endorse the check and cover it."

"You're not even lying good, mister."

I was getting annoyed again. "Listen, pal," I said in a patient voice, "I've got this friend named Fuad. He said he wanted to buy a van from you, but you sold it to-"

"Fuad?" Hussein said suspiciously. And then he de-scribed Fuad il-Manhous from the greasy hair down to the worn-out shoes.

"How do you know him?" I asked, astonished.

"He's my brother-in-law," said Hussein. "Sometimes he stays by me and his sister. I must've left that check laying around, and Fuad thought he could get away with something. I'll break his fuckin' arms, the scrawny bas-tard."

"Huh," I said, still amazed that Fuad could come up with such a plausible story. It was a better scam than I thought he was capable of. "It looks like he tried to swin-dle both of us."

"Well, I'm getting my money back from the bank. Did you cover the check?"

I knew what was coming. "Yeah," I said.

Hussein laughed. "Then good luck trying to recover your money from Fuad. He never has two kiam to rub together. If he's blown that twenty-four hundred, you can just sing in the moonlight for it. And he's probably left town already."

"Yeah, you right. I'm glad we got this all sorted out." I hung up the phone. Later, when I'd cleared up all my major troubles, Fuad would have to pay.

Although, in a-way, I half-ass admired him for pulling it off. He used my own prejudice against me--me and Jacques both. We trusted him because we thought he was too stupid to pull a fast one. Weeks ago, I'd been taken by Bedu con men, and now by Fuad. I still had plenty to be humble about.

"Sir?" said Adwan.

I gave him back his phone. "All right, I understand it all now," I told him. "Mr. Hussein and I have a mutual friend who tried to play both ends against the middle."

"Yes, sir," said Adwan. "The bank only cared that it was properly repaid."

I stood up. "Fuck the bank," I said. I even toyed with the idea of withdrawing all my money from the Bank of the Dunes. The only thing was, they were just too conve-nient. I would've liked to have slugged that snotty Kirk Adwan just once, too.

It had been a very long day, and I hadn't gotten much *'-5 pp at Yasmin's apartment. I was beginning to run down.

an I got into the car again, I told myself that I was going to make one more little visit, and then I was going to sit on the end of the bar in my club and watch naked female-shaped creatures wiggle to the music.

"Home, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.

"No rest for-the wicked, my friend," I said, leaning my head back and massaging my temples. "Take me back to the eastern gate of the Budayeen. I need to talk with the medical examiner there, and after that I'm going to sit in Chiriga'sfor a few hours. I need to relax a little."

"Yes, yaa Sidi."

"You're welcome to come with me. You know that Chiri will be glad to see you."

I saw Kmuzu's eyes narrow in the rearview mirror. "I will wait for you in the car," he said sternly. He really didn't like the attention he got from Chiri. Or maybe he did like it, and that's what-was bothering him.

"I'll be a few hours," I said. "In fact, I'll probably stay until closing."

"Then I will go home. You may call me to get you when you wish."

It only took a few minutes to drive back along the boulevard to the Budayeen. I got out of the car, leaned down, and said good-bye to Kmuzu. I stood in the warm drizzle and watched the cream-colored sedan drive away. To be honest, I was in very little hurry to meet the medi-cal examiner. I have a low tolerance for ghastliness.

And ghastliness was just what I -saw when I entered the morgue, which was just inside the gate on the corner of First and the Street. The city operated two morgues; there was one somewhere else to handle the city in gen-eral, and there was this office to take care of the Budayeen. The walled quarter generated so many dead bodies that it rated its own cadaver franchise. The only thing I never understood was, why was the morgue at the eastern end of the Budayeen, and the cemetery against the western wall? You'd think it would be more conve-nient if they were closer together.

I'd been in the morgue a few times in the past. My friends and I called it the Chamber of Horrors, because it bore out every horrible expectation one might have. It was dimly lighted, and there was very poor ventilation. The air was hot and dank and reeked of human wastes, dead bodies, and formaldehyde. The medical examiner's office had twelve vaults in which to store the corpses, but natural death, misadventure, and old-fashioned mayhem delivered that many bodies before noon daily. The later ones waited on the floor, stacked in piles on the broken, grimy tiles.

There was the chief medical examiner and two assis-tants to try to keep up with this constant, grim traffic.

Cleanliness was the next greatest problem, but none of the three officials had time to worry about swabbing the floors.

Lieutenant Hajjar occasionally sent jailed prisoners over to work in the morgue, but it wasn't a coveted assign-ment.

Because the builders of the body vaults had ne-glected to include drains, they had to be mopped out by hand every few days. The vaults were wonderful hatcher-ies for many varieties of germs and bacteria. The unlucky prisoners often returned to jail with anything from tuber-culosis to meningitis, diseases which were eminently pre-ventable elsewhere.

One of the assistants came up to me with a harried look on his face. "What can I do for you?" he asked. "Got a body or something?"

Instinctively, I backed away from him. I was afraid he'd touch me. "I have permission from the imam of the Shimaal Mosque to proceed with the exhumation of a body. It was a murder victim who never received an offi-cial autopsy."

"Exhumation, uh huh," said the assistant, beckoning me to follow him. I passed through the tiled room. There was a naked corpse stretched stiff on one of the two metal autopsy tables. It was illuminated by a dirty, cracked sky-light overhead, and by a row of flickering fluorescent fix-tures.

The formaldehyde was making my eyes burn and my nose drip. I was thankful when I saw that the assistant was leading me toward a solid wooden door at the far end of the examination room.

"In here," he said. "The doc will be with you in a few minutes. He's having lunch."

I wedged myself into the tiny office. It was lined with file cabinets. There was a desk piled high with stacks of folders, files, books, computer bubble plates, and who knew what else. There was a chair opposite it, surrounded by more mounds of papers, books, and boxes. I sat in the chair. There was no room to move it. I felt trapped in this dark warren, but at least it was better than the outer room.

After a while, the medical examiner came in. He glanced at me once over the top of his thick-rimmed spec-tacles.

New eyes are so cheap and easy to get-there are a couple of good eyeshops right in the Budayeen-that you don't see many people with glasses anymore. "I'm Dr. Besharati. You're here about an exhumation?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

He sat down. I could barely see him over the litter on his desk. He picked up a trumpet from the floor and leaned back. "I'll have to clear this through Lieutenant Hajjar's office," he said.

"I've already been to see him. I was given^permission by Imam Abd ar-Razzaq to have this posthumous exami-nation performed."

"Then I'll just call the imam," said the medical exam-iner. He tootled a few notes on his trumpet.

"The imam is dead," I said in a flat voice. "You can call his secretary, though."

"Excuse me?" Dr. Besharati gave me an astonished look.

"He was murdered this afternoon. After I left his of-fice."

"May the blessings of Allah be on him and peace!" he said. Then he murmured for a while. I assumed he was praying. "That's most horrible. It's a terrible thing. Do they have the murderer?"

I shook my head. "No, not yet."

"I hope he's torn to pieces," said Dr. Besharati.

"About Khalid Maxwell's autopsy-" I handed him the written order from the late Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq.

He put his trumpet back on the floor and examined the document. "Yes, of course. What is the reason for your request?"

I filled him in on the entire story. He stared at me with a xiazed expression during most of it, but the men-tion of Friedlander Bey's name snapped him out of it. Papa often has that magical effect on people.

At last, Dr. Besharati stood up and reached across his desk to take my hand. "Please give my regards to Fried-lander Bey," he said nervously. "I will see to the exhuma-tion myself. It will be done this very day, inshallah. Asto the autopsy itself, I will perform it tomorrow morning at seven o'clock. I like to get as much work done before the heat of the afternoon. You understand."

"Yes,-of course," I said.

"Do you wish to be present? For the autopsy, I mean?"

I chewed my lip and thought. "How long will it take?"

The medical examiner shrugged. "A couple of hours."

Dr. Besharati's reputation suggested that he was someone Friedlander Bey and I could trust. Still, I in-tended to let him prove himself. "Then I'll come by about nine o'clock, and you can give me a report. If there's anything you think I ought to see, you can show me then. Otherwise, I don't see the need for me to get in your way."

, He came out from around his desk and took my arm, leading me back out into the Chamber of Horrors. "I suppose not," he said.

I hurried ahead of him to the outer waiting room. "I appreciate your taking the time to help me," I said. 'Thank you."

He waved a hand. "No, it's nothing. Friedlander Bey has helped me on more than one occasion in the past. Perhaps tomorrow, after we've finished with Officer Max-well, you'll permit me to give you a tour of my little do-main?"

I stared at him. "We'll see," I said at last.

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. "I understand completely. Twenty years I've been here, and I hate it just as much now as when I first saw it." He shook his head.

When I got back outside, I gulped fresh air like a drowning man. I needed a couple of drinks now more than ever.

As I made my way up the Street, I heard shrill whistles around me. I smiled. My guardian angels were on the job. It was early evening, and the clubs and cafes were beginning to fill up. There were quite a few nervous tour-ists around, all wondering if they'd be taking their lives in their hands if they just sat somewhere and had a beer. They'd probably find out. The hard way.

The night shift had just taken over when I walked into Chin's. I felt better immediately. Kandy was on stage, dancing energetically to some Sikh propaganda song. That was a trend in music that I wished would hurry up and disappear.

"Jambo, Mr. Boss!" called Chiri. She flashed a grin.

"Where you at, sweetheart," I said. I took my seat at the far curve of the bar.

Chiri threw together a White Death and brought it to me. "Ready for another wonderful, exotic, exciting night on the Street?" she said, plopping down a cork coaster and setting my drink on it.

I frowned. "It's never wonderful, it's never exotic," I said. "It's just the same damn boring music and the same faceless customers."

Chiri nodded. "The money always looks the same, too, but that don't make me lack it out of bed."

I looked around the club. My three pals, Jacques, Saied the Half-Hajj, and Mahmoud, were sitting at a table in the front corner, playing cards. This was rare, because the Half-Hajj got no lack from watching the dancers, and Jacques was militantly straight and could barely speak to the debs and sexchanges, and Mahmoud-as far as I knew -had no sexual predilections at all. That's why they spent most of their time at the Cafe Solace or on the patio at Gargotier's place.