LITMIR.BIZ

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and murders there.

      For some time now, the proprietor of the Hotel Scheherazade had stopped paying the kickback to police so they wouldn’t come after its top customers—businessmen who would do anything to avoid scandal and preserve their family life. Any facility that serviced this nightlife—bars, clubs, and brothels—paid off the police to safeguard their interests, and the rates were higher on weekends and paydays. On these days the scene was particularly lucrative. The parties raged into the morning, and everyone benefited; even the cats and dogs got scraps from half-eaten, decadent meals. The weekend cut was methodically planned between the bosses across the board. Hanash took his rotation every two months, sometimes every three. Anyone who entered this business got paid the same share. Detective Hanash could have delegated someone else to take his place, but he didn’t trust anyone not to skim a bit off of his share. Even his closest friend wouldn’t hand over more than half the collection.

      The street in front of Hotel Scheherazade was swarming with police when Hanash arrived. The police presence and number of vehicles in front of the hotel made it seem like the response to a terrorist operation. A security officer was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, his attention on the hotel entrance. Another officer was indoors inspecting the guest registry. The men and women outside were separated into two lines as uniformed officers led them in pairs to cars that would take them to the station. Most of the clientele heading to the station were those who couldn’t afford to pay, so their arrests were intended to divert attention. The real targets of this operation were the men who were still in their rooms with their mistresses, and who would get to haggle with Hanash when he arrived.

      The officer inspecting the hotel’s guest registry gave Hanash a proper salute and handed over the registry. Hanash skimmed through it. He paused and looked up at the officer. They both knew instinctively that they would begin with room seven.

      The detective knocked on the door to room seven, not giving Hamadi and Nezha time to get dressed before ordering the hotel employee to unlock the door. A young, well-built police officer charged into the room. The detective entered, followed by a uniformed security guard who blocked the door with his wide shoulders. Hanash cast a disgusted look at Hamadi, who barely had time to put his glasses on. He didn’t even acknowledge Nezha.

      “Police! Are you deaf? I said police!” he barked.

      Hamadi stood there shaking, his legs barely able to support him.

      The hotel hallways were full of commotion, a mix of women’s screams and men’s pleading as the team of police took over the place. Nezha was unimpressed. This whole scene was an act from a play she had performed in before. She wasn’t concerned at all. She put on her clothes quietly and went to the bathroom, where she peed loudly—an act of defiance. When she returned to the room, though, the young police officer lunged at her, slapping her with such force that she crumpled against the wall. Nezha knew that the real motivation behind the slap was to intimidate and frighten Hamadi. She was just a poor, broke prostitute they wouldn’t get a single dirham from. What concerned them was the man with a high-powered job, a reputation, and a family to protect, whom they’d caught red-handed cheating. He was the big catch.

      Hamadi was so bewildered that he forgot where he was and how he had gotten there. He began to feel unwell. His lips were dry and he was incredibly thirsty. With great difficulty, he made his way to the bathroom and bent over to place his hands under the tepid water coming out of the decaying faucet. He took a good look at himself in the mirror as Hanash started scolding him like a dog.

      “Come over here . . . in front of me, old man.”

      Hamadi shook his head feebly without lifting his eyes. Filtering into the room were all sorts of sounds: women sobbing, desperate pleas, and other adulterers trying to make deals. There was a prostitute shouting hysterically outside on the street. She was yelling that she needed to be released because she had given her baby sleeping medication and left him home alone. Then came the sound of her being slapped, which put an end to her appeals.

      Detective Hanash produced a look of total indifference as he gazed at Hamadi, who appeared humble, as if seeking a pardon. Then Hanash looked at Nezha in disgust. She was sobbing in the corner, her hand over the side of her face that had been slapped.

      “Stand up and don’t move! And shut up, or I’ll bury you alive!” said Hanash angrily.

      Nezha’s voice trembled and she burst into tears. “Hit me as much as you want, sir, but please don’t take me to the station.”

      The officer squeezed her ear violently, knowing she would barely be able to breathe after this. She felt as if he had ripped it off with a pair of sharp pincers and her body was rising toward the ceiling. He let go of her ear and wiped his hand on his sleeve, warning her with a nod that he would do it again if she so much as opened her mouth. Nezha gulped air, tasting her tears and snot, trying not to collapse.

      Hanash did a circuit of the room, noticing sticky tissues near the bed. He smiled wryly, knowing that the time had come for him to deliver the reprimand that he had memorized. He looked at Hamadi, who was sitting there guilt-ridden.

       “Aren’t you embarrassed?” he started in. “A bank director and a respected father who is cheating on his wife with this piece of dirt who is younger than your youngest daughter! How will you face your wife? Your children? Your colleagues at work? Look at yourself! You didn’t even use a condom? Aren’t you even afraid of giving some disease to your wife?”

      Nezha trembled, furious at Hanash’s accusations that she was dirty and disease-ridden.

      Hamadi broke down and began sobbing. He looked up at Hanash imploringly.

      “Please help me, sir, God protect you,” he stammered. “I can’t go to the station. . . . How can we reach an agreement?”

      Detective Hanash ordered the officer to remove Nezha from the room. He dragged her by the arm and shoved her hard toward the door, where the security guard caught her.

      “She can wait in the hallway,” the officer said to the guard, and locked the door.

      Hamadi gained courage and looked at the detective. “I’ll give you a thousand dirhams.”

      The young officer cackled derisively, displaying the braces on his teeth. He shifted about restlessly, revealing the handcuffs and revolver under his belt.

      Hanash glared at Hamadi, enraged. He grabbed Hamadi by the collar and shook him violently.

      “Is this what we’re worth to you? I bet you lost more money than this on that bitch. . . . If I order them to take you to the station there’s no going back, no matter what you pay! And if you’re arrested when you leave here there isn’t a higher power in the land that will prevent you from being sentenced for infidelity, public intoxication, debauchery, and God knows what else. How will you face your wife, your children, your friends, and your bosses? We are doing you a favor. We want you to avoid prison, to avoid a massive scandal. And you’re bartering with us?”

      Hamadi bowed his head in silence, and for the first time found himself thinking about his wife. She would never forgive him for infidelity. She would let him rot in prison. And his son Radwan, an engineer, how would he take the news? And his daughter, a university professor married to another professor who happened to be a member of the Islamic party? The scandal would reverberate throughout the community.

      “If you aren’t in a rush,” said Hanash, “we have work to do.”

      Hamadi stared at his executioners, one by one, and could sense that he was a catch for them. He knew his situation was hopeless. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, which had been lying on the ground, took out all the money in his wallet, and handed it over: three thousand dirhams.

      Hanash counted the cash quickly, gave Hamadi a look of satisfaction, and placed the money in his inner jacket pocket.

      “Don’t leave the room now,” he said, “and don’t let this slut stay with you. It’s best to spend the night here and leave in the morning.”

      Before Hamadi had time to utter a word

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