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By George A. Effinger

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It was a very settled, very sedate part of town. It was so peaceful, it made me uncomfortable. “Courane's is just up here,” said Shaknahyi. He turned into a poorer street that was little more than an alley. One side was hemmed in by the back walls of the same flat-roofed houses. There were small balconies on the second floor, and bright, lamplit windows obscured by lattices made of narrow wooden strips. On the other side of the alley were boarded-up buildings and a few businesses: A leather-worker's shop, a bakery, a restaurant that specialized in bean dishes, a bookstall.

Wait a minute, Chiri. I had nothing to do with—” “These are the keys. This one's for the register. The money in there's all yours. The girls are yours, the hassles are yours from now on, too. ” She snatched her bottle of tende from under the bar. “Kwa heri, motherfucker,” she snarled at me. Then she stormed out of the club. Everything got real quiet then. Whatever song had been playing came to an end and nobody put on another one. A deb named Kandy was on stage, and she just stood there and stared at me like I might start slavering and shrieking at any moment.

He turned into a poorer street that was little more than an alley. One side was hemmed in by the back walls of the same flat-roofed houses. There were small balconies on the second floor, and bright, lamplit windows obscured by lattices made of narrow wooden strips. On the other side of the alley were boarded-up buildings and a few businesses: A leather-worker's shop, a bakery, a restaurant that specialized in bean dishes, a bookstall. There was also Courane's, out of place in that constricted avenue.

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