Free When Gravity Fails by George Alec Effinger Page B

get your money.”
    He called me a couple of foul names, then ducked back into the room. He scrawled out the receipt and showed it to me. “Give me the fifteen hundred kiam,” he said, growling.
    “Give me the receipt first,”
    “Give me the accursed money, you pimp!”
    For a second I thought about hitting him hard with the edge of my hand across the flat of his nose, breaking his face for him. It was a delicious image. “Christ, Abdoulaye! Get Karîm back here. Karîm!” I called. When the gray-bearded old man returned, I said to him, “I’m going to give you some money, Karîm, and Abdoulaye is going to give you that piece of paper in his hand. You give him the money, and give me the paper.”
    Karîm hesitated, as if the transaction were too complicated for him to follow. Then he nodded. The trade was made in silence. I turned and went back across the alley. “Son of a whore!” cried Abdoulaye. I smiled. That is one hell of an insult in the Muslim world; but, as it happened to be true, it’s never offended me very much. Still, because of Yasmin and our plans for the evening, I had let Abdoulaye abuse me beyond my usual limit. I promised myself that soon there would be a settling of that account, as well. In the Budayeen, it is not well to be thought of as one who meekly submits to insolence and intimidation.
    As I passed through the storeroom and went to Yasmin, I said, “You can collect your cut from Abdoulaye, Hassan. You’d better do it fast: I think he’s losing big.” Hassan nodded but said nothing.
    “I’m glad that’s taken care of,” said Yasmin.
    “Not any more than I am.” I folded the receipt and pushed it down into a hip pocket.
    We went to Chili’s, and I waited until she’d finished serving three young men in Calabrian naval uniforms. “Chiri,” I said, “we can’t stay long, but I wanted to give you this.” I counted out seventy-five kiam and put the money on the bar. Chiri didn’t make a move toward it.
    “Yasmin, you look beautiful, honey. Marîd, what’s this for? The stuff last night?” I nodded. “I know you make a thing about keeping your word and paying your debts and all that honorable choo. I wouldn’t charge you Street prices, though. Take some of this back.”
    I grinned at her. “Chiri, you risk causing offense to a Muslim.”
    She laughed. “Muslim, my black ass. Then you two have a drink on me. There’s a lot of action tonight, a lot of loose money. The girls are in a good mood, and so am I.”
    “We’re celebrating, Chiri,” said Yasmin. They exchanged some kind of secret signal—maybe that kind of occult, gender-specific transfer of knowledge goes along with the sex-change operation. Anyway, Chiri understood. We took the free drinks she’d offered, and got up to go.
    “You two have a good night,” she said. The seventy-five kiam had long since disappeared. I don’t remember seeing it happen, though.
    “Kwa heri,” I said as we left.
    “Kwa herini ya kuonana,” she said. Then, “All right, which one of you lazy, fat-assed whores is supposed to be up on stage dancing? Kandy? Well, get your fuckin’ clothes off and get to work!” Chiri sounded happy. All was well with the world.
    “We could pass by Jo-Mama’s,” said Yasmin. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.” Jo-Mama was a huge woman, nearly six feet tall, somewhere between three and four hundred pounds, with hair that changed according to some esoteric cycle: blonde, redhead, brunette, midnight black; then a dull brown would start to grow out, and when it was long enough, it was transformed by some sorcery into blonde hair again. She was a tough, strong woman, and no one caused trouble in her bar, which catered to Greek merchant seamen. Jo-Mama had no scruples against pulling her needle gun or her Solingen perforator and creating general peace in gory heaps all around her. I’m sure Jo-Mama could easily have handled two Chirigas at the same time, and simultaneously still have the