and unscrewed the cap, brought the vodka to his lips, then paused to say, “There’s plenty to go around.”
After the evening shift had come on duty, and he was on his own time, Darius drove south from the administrative district of Ark. Near the central bazaar traffic thickened, and the sidewalks were sluggish with pedestrians. Down stone steps he entered the bazaar through the gold sellers’ quarter, and stood there while his ears grew accustomed to the din. Under a faienced arcade six thousand shops and stalls undulated for ten kilometers through the heart of the city. He pushed into the crowd, which swept him to the copper beaters, and beyond to the rug merchants and traders in textiles, gem cutters and tile makers and leather crafters whose booths gave off an oily, animal smell neutralized by the sweetness of bakeries and the charcoal smoke of cello kebab, square chunks of lamb served on a bed of rice. Between the wool dyers and lumber traders, at a narrow stall no deeper than a closet, he stopped to watch a man bent over a bench cluttered with tin cans.
The man pounded the cans with a rubber mallet that did not mar the labels stamped with a picture of a tree burdened with sun-ripened peaches. When they were reshaped to his satisfaction, he wove them into a mat of Pepsi-Cola cans. These he fashioned into a suitcase, which he finished off with a leather handle. Looking up to admire his handicraft, he saw Darius, and turned away.
“Farhad, don’t you say hello to an old friend?”
“You’re no friend of mine,” the suitcase maker answered.
“That depends on your point of view. I’d say I’m the best friend you have in this world, and maybe the next.”
Farhad placed another can on the bench. A glancing blow scraped the green crown from the peach tree, and he threw it away. “I can’t work with you jabbering at my back.”
“Then look at me.”
Reluctantly, Farhad faced him. His skin was loose beneath hollow black eyes. Thin on top, he was going gray at the temples. Farhad was twenty-four. “You don’t have any business with me,” he complained. “I’ve been clean.”
Darius smiled unpleasantly. “It’s a new service of the National Police. We look after the health of all our old friends.”
Farhad didn’t see the humor in it. “Ask the Komiteh,” he said. “They’d know if I was using.”
“But I’m already here.” Darius grabbed the suitcase maker’s wrist, and rolled his sleeve above the elbow. Farhad’s bicep was a shriveled knot of scars, but there were no fresh abscesses or punctures.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful, instead of bothering me, and hire out as a bodyguard for a mullah?” Farhad said.
He buttoned his sleeve, hammered another can. Darius watched over his shoulder, then kicked him behind the knee. Farhad went down, grazing his jaw on the bench and recoiled onto his back. Darius was all over him. He tore off the suitcase maker’s shoes and flung them into a pyramid of spoiled cans. Farhad’s feet were two sizes too large for his shrunken body, the skin yellow as parchment. Along the instep the veins were swollen red, and drained into suppurating wounds between his toes.
“I should call the Komiteh,” Darius said. “You’d learn who your friends are.”
“Eat rooster shit.”
Farhad’s heels swept under Darius’s chin. Darius poised a jab at the scarred soles, but pulled it when the suitcase maker screamed in anticipated pain. Disapproval became the verdict in the murmuring at his back. A crowd stretched to the rug merchants, all eyes on him. “Keep moving,” he said coolly. “The show’s over. Let’s go.”
Grumbling, the shoppers drifted in search of the next attraction. Darius pulled Farhad to his knees, and backed him over the bench.
“What do you want?”
Getting information from an addict was next to impossible, Darius knew, even when there were funds to pay for it. Properly softened up, however, Farhad would not be as quick to
After the evening shift had come on duty, and he was on his own time, Darius drove south from the administrative district of Ark. Near the central bazaar traffic thickened, and the sidewalks were sluggish with pedestrians. Down stone steps he entered the bazaar through the gold sellers’ quarter, and stood there while his ears grew accustomed to the din. Under a faienced arcade six thousand shops and stalls undulated for ten kilometers through the heart of the city. He pushed into the crowd, which swept him to the copper beaters, and beyond to the rug merchants and traders in textiles, gem cutters and tile makers and leather crafters whose booths gave off an oily, animal smell neutralized by the sweetness of bakeries and the charcoal smoke of cello kebab, square chunks of lamb served on a bed of rice. Between the wool dyers and lumber traders, at a narrow stall no deeper than a closet, he stopped to watch a man bent over a bench cluttered with tin cans.
The man pounded the cans with a rubber mallet that did not mar the labels stamped with a picture of a tree burdened with sun-ripened peaches. When they were reshaped to his satisfaction, he wove them into a mat of Pepsi-Cola cans. These he fashioned into a suitcase, which he finished off with a leather handle. Looking up to admire his handicraft, he saw Darius, and turned away.
“Farhad, don’t you say hello to an old friend?”
“You’re no friend of mine,” the suitcase maker answered.
“That depends on your point of view. I’d say I’m the best friend you have in this world, and maybe the next.”
Farhad placed another can on the bench. A glancing blow scraped the green crown from the peach tree, and he threw it away. “I can’t work with you jabbering at my back.”
“Then look at me.”
Reluctantly, Farhad faced him. His skin was loose beneath hollow black eyes. Thin on top, he was going gray at the temples. Farhad was twenty-four. “You don’t have any business with me,” he complained. “I’ve been clean.”
Darius smiled unpleasantly. “It’s a new service of the National Police. We look after the health of all our old friends.”
Farhad didn’t see the humor in it. “Ask the Komiteh,” he said. “They’d know if I was using.”
“But I’m already here.” Darius grabbed the suitcase maker’s wrist, and rolled his sleeve above the elbow. Farhad’s bicep was a shriveled knot of scars, but there were no fresh abscesses or punctures.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful, instead of bothering me, and hire out as a bodyguard for a mullah?” Farhad said.
He buttoned his sleeve, hammered another can. Darius watched over his shoulder, then kicked him behind the knee. Farhad went down, grazing his jaw on the bench and recoiled onto his back. Darius was all over him. He tore off the suitcase maker’s shoes and flung them into a pyramid of spoiled cans. Farhad’s feet were two sizes too large for his shrunken body, the skin yellow as parchment. Along the instep the veins were swollen red, and drained into suppurating wounds between his toes.
“I should call the Komiteh,” Darius said. “You’d learn who your friends are.”
“Eat rooster shit.”
Farhad’s heels swept under Darius’s chin. Darius poised a jab at the scarred soles, but pulled it when the suitcase maker screamed in anticipated pain. Disapproval became the verdict in the murmuring at his back. A crowd stretched to the rug merchants, all eyes on him. “Keep moving,” he said coolly. “The show’s over. Let’s go.”
Grumbling, the shoppers drifted in search of the next attraction. Darius pulled Farhad to his knees, and backed him over the bench.
“What do you want?”
Getting information from an addict was next to impossible, Darius knew, even when there were funds to pay for it. Properly softened up, however, Farhad would not be as quick to
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