Alfred sighed. “I do miss home sometimes. No ways I miss Jim Crow, though.”
“Amen!” Benny added. “Ain’t no Jim Crow in Cai-ro!”
A chorus of “Yeah, you right!” came from all around.
“Don’t know about all that,” Mansa Musa cut in, swirling his drink. “I get treated fine enough, because I ain’t from here. Other folk dark as us, though, not so lucky. Seen them get put out places plenty. Even spit on. Slapped in the streets. And who you find in the slums? Boo-coo faces look like ours. Same as back home.”
Fatma couldn’t deny those accounts. Egypt had its own problems. Al-Jahiz being Soudanese had made things somewhat better. There were even calls to ban discrimination by law. But ingrained beliefs were hard to break.
“Don’t make sense,” Benny grumbled. “Back home, Fatma here be riding the Jim Crow car. Half here couldn’t pass a paper bag test.”
“Lots can’t even pass for octoroon,” Alfred said. “Hell, not even quadroon.”
Mansa Musa grunted. “They don’t know that, though.”
“Some octoroons and quadroons don’t know neither,” Benny quipped.
New laughter came as Fatma listened in fascination. She’d picked up a lot of her English from them. Even learned their cadence and inflections. But some of the vernacular still escaped her. What in the world was an octoroon?
“That’s why I stay draped down wherever I go,” Mansa Musa related. “People treat you right when you got this suit on. Where y’at, Fats? That’s a nice one you got on tonight!”
Fatma gave her usual flick of the bowler. She’d gone for bright burgundy, with a brocaded waistcoat. Her dark olive tie was fastened with a silver ball tie pin, over a rose-blush pin-striped shirt and a club collar. He was right. People did treat you different in the suit.
“You all know I taught Fatma how to dress, right?” Mansa Musa asked.
Fatma gave him a flat look. “But all your suits are gold.”
Benny barked a laugh while Alfred bellowed till his jowls shook, slapping the counter.
Mansa Musa huffed. “You all need to watch how you talk to the king!” He’d taken up the sobriquet after hearing about the medieval Mali emperor, who’d passed through Egypt on hajj, dispensing enough gold to ruin local markets—or so the stories claimed. He ended his sets with a shower of fake gold coins, which people snatched up like treasure.
“Uh-oh!” Benny exclaimed, looking past them. “Here comes trouble now!”
Fatma followed his gaze, to a tall figure standing near the entrance. Siti. And Benny was right. She looked absolutely like trouble—in a long red evening gown of lace and chiffon that fell draping to her feet. Under the sheer gossamer top a fitted bodice sewn with bead netting glistened in the dim light, while a matching sash cinched her waist.
Siti’s eyes caught Fatma, and she set out in a slow sashay toward them, drawing more than a few eyes. A chorus of chatter met her arrival. Benny and the others treated Fatma like one of them, but Siti was another matter—a woman to shower compliments and who could poke jabs just as quick. After the hubbub died down, she slid in front of Fatma, reaching to tug her tie.
“Funny running into you here.”
Fatma glanced to a golden diadem nestled into a short braided wig Siti now wore—the front engraved with a lioness. “You look…”
“Like the fiery wrath of the goddess made flesh on Earth?”
“I was going to say ‘beautiful.’”
“I’ll take that.” She caught a drink from the bartender, downing it in one go. Her eyes went to Fatma’s glass. “Sarsaparilla? With mint leaves?”
“And some tea.”
Siti tsked. “We’re in here to be bad. Break the rules.”
“This is me breaking the rules.”
“Don’t take this wrong, but those bright brown eyes of yours look tired. Long day at Spooky Boys Central?”
Spooky Boys? “You know how tedious it is reviewing financial reports of a transnational business with dozens of subsidiaries?”
“No. And I don’t want to know. Ever.”
“Even with Hadia there, took hours.”
“Hadia?”
“My new … partner.” The word didn’t sound any less strange.
Siti’s eyes lit up. “Partner? Another lady Spooky Boy? Pretty like you? With a thing for suits and infidels? Should bring her by.”
Fatma tried to imagine Hadia at the Spot, and failed. “I think she breaks fewer rules than me. All bright and eager. Had to chase her out of the office. Likes typing up reports, though.”
“Agent Fatma and an eager lady partner. Can’t wait to meet her.”
Fatma stopped mid-sip. Meet? Siti laughed, covering her mouth.
“Relax. But you’re going to have to figure out how to explain why she keeps running into you in my company. I’m pretty memorable.”
“That mean you plan on staying around awhile?”
Siti answered by downing another drink, which wasn’t an answer at all.
The sudden roll of a snare sizzled the air, joined by the faster pace of palms hitting darbukas. It hadn’t taken long for that New Orleans music to blend with local styles—as if the two were reunited kin. It created a vibrant mash-up that beat with the soul of modern Cairo, drifting from these underground lairs and onto the streets. The sounds stirred anticipation through the crowd who rushed the dance floor.
Mansa Musa slid over, offering a hand to Siti. “Let the king escort you out in style.”
She answered by wrapping an arm into Fatma’s. “Afraid this dance is taken. Yalla!”
Fatma rose, sparing a shrug and bowler flick for Mansa Musa. He laughed it off, flicking his gold hat in return. They reached the dance floor just as the blare of a horn started. Siti spun as Fatma stepped forward, catching her waist and drawing her close, finding each other’s rhythm. The two shared knowing smiles, letting their movements do the talking. As far as Fatma was concerned, if this wasn’t magic, nothing was.
Hours later, they walked the backstreets near Muhammad Ali Street. Fatma kept pace with her cane, Siti on her arm, dancing lightly, as
