“Fourteen kids. Two new sons hung like Arabians.” Pernell eyed Sarah. “Who’s this?”

“Sarah, may I present Jack Pernell. Jack this is Sarah, the woman I intend to marry.”

Pernell sized Sarah up as though he were considering a bid. “Pleasure.” He nodded, but did not touch her. “I’ll let my wives show you the house.” He grabbed Rakkim by the neck, steered him away. “Let’s go out back. The last thing I want to hear is females jabbering on about episiotomies and migraines and the best way to cook a chicken.”

Rakkim glanced over his shoulder at Sarah as Pernell led him away.

They walked around to the rear of the house, which was much larger than it appeared from the road. There were four wings, one for each of the wives and her children; the central structure was probably where Pernell held court. They crossed an expanse of manicured lawn and stood beside the Olympic-size swimming pool. A single white, inflatable swan floated across the surface in the sunlight. Sounds of children came from the house, shouts and cries, laughter too, but there was no sign of their presence on the grounds. No toys, no bicycles, no swing set. Just the swan. Pernell ran a tight crew. Children were the responsibility of the women. Or the madrassa. The older boys would receive specialized instruction from him, but it would be done far away from the house.

“You look good,” said Rakkim.

“Sure, I do.” Pernell led the way around the perimeter of his acre, double-timing it. “The knee servos in my legs are burning out and the replacement parts are back-ordered. I had a nasty infection that laid me up for a week. Just got out of the hospital. Other than that, I’m cocked and locked.” He glanced at Rakkim. One of his eyes was milky and unhealthy looking. “What are you doing here? Come to ask old sarge to be your best man?”

“I need some help.”

“I could have told you that years ago.” Pernell spat khat juice into the grass. “You making major your first hitch shows just how fucked-up the Fedayeen is. You retiring after your first hitch, that shows just how fucked-up you are.” Pernell shook his head. “Such a waste. The talent that Allah gave you…and you toss it away.” He shrugged. “Inshallah.”

“Nice place you got here. This consulting business of yours must be doing well.”

Pernell grabbed an orange from one of his trees, tossed it over to Rakkim, barely breaking stride. “Cops. They think carrying a gun makes them a warrior, and the answer to every situation is a flash grenade. I do what I can. These SWAT hotshots think they know it all and I’m just a creaky has-been. It usually takes me ten whole minutes to straighten them out. Even faster if I have to break somebody’s jaw, but the brass don’t like me to do that. It’s not real work, but it puts food on the table.”

Rakkim peeled the orange, put the peels in his pocket.

Pernell glanced at him, kept walking. “You look fucked out. That little gal must be putting you through your paces.”

Rakkim fed a slice of orange into his mouth.

A grasshopper jumped in front of Pernell, and he nailed it with a wad of khat juice. “You’re a damn fool to wait until now to start settling down. You should have two or three wives at least by now. Don’t go in for any of that one-wife foolishness. You been around Catholics too much, if you think that way.”

The orange was sweet and juicy. “One at a time is plenty.”

“That’s a mistake. One wife thinks she owns you. You have two or three or four, they all know they can be replaced with a quick I divorce thee. Three times and it’s back on the street. Good Muslim woman knows that, knows her only hope is to keep the man of the house pleased. Allah allowed us four wives for a reason.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Not that you’ll take it. You were always a hardhead. That’s okay, you’ll find out. That little gal of yours looks fun, but she’s got brains. I could see that just from the way she stood. Woman with brains, that’s just asking for trouble.”

Rakkim chewed the last of the orange, juice running down his chin. “I like trouble.”

“Come talk to me in a few years and tell me if you still like it.” Pernell raked a hand through his beard. They walked in silence until they made it back to the swimming pool. Pernell eased himself into a deck chair, the tiny scars across his face flaring. “I could use a partner in the consulting business. I’m making good money, but with the right partner I could expand. PDs fall all over themselves for ex-Fedayeen.”

Rakkim sat beside him.

“Time for you to sell that den of iniquity of yours and go into an honest trade.”

Rakkim watched the inflatable swan drift across the pool. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“There’s no fun in anything,” Pernell said softly. He bucked up as two of his wives and Sarah came out of the back door carrying cups and tea and pastries. He waited as the wives set down the refreshments, poured tea for the both of them, then backed away, bowing. Sarah stayed. Pernell dropped five sugar cubes into his teacup. “I told Rakkim he should plan on marrying a quartet. He seems to think you’re as much as he could handle.”

“I am as much as he can handle.”

Pernell banged the spoon against the cup as he stirred. “Don’t be spreading that modern slop around my wives.” His smile didn’t even attempt to be convincing. “I’m serious.”

“A husband like you makes women happy to be part of a quartet. It means they each only have to spend a fourth of their time pretending.” Sarah smiled at Pernell. “I’m serious.”

Pernell looked at Rakkim. “Yeah, you’re going to have trouble with this one.”

Rakkim watched Sarah as she walked back to the house. “I’m counting on it.”

Pernell noisily sipped his tea. “What kind of help do you need?”

“I’m looking for a rent-wife. Short-termer-”

Pernell cackled.

“Not for me. Her name is Fatima Abdullah. Last aka was Fancy Andrews.” Rakkim showed him her picture on his phone, printed out a copy for him. “This mug shot is five years old. She was busted in Little Vatican for stealing a customer’s wallet. Had another bust the year before for heroin possession.”

“Little Vatican is full of violators. What do you expect, though? Catholics.”

“I was hoping one of your contacts in Vice could give me a lead on where to find her.”

Pernell pushed a lip out at the photo. “Five years since her last bust? Five weeks is a long time living that life. She could be anywhere. She could be dead.”

“I know.” Rakkim leaned forward. “All charges were dropped on that last one. Administrative adjudication. Which means she paid the arresting officer off, one way or the other. I’m thinking she might have been picked up a few times since then and the paperwork never got filed.”

“That’s been known to happen from time to time.” Pernell sipped his tea. “What do you want with her?”

“Her father is looking for her.” The lie came easily. Smoothly. “He’s dying and no longer cares about the shame she’s brought to the family. I owe him a favor.”

“So there’s no money in it?”

“I’m happy to pay you for your time and expertise.”

“Like you’d pay a rent-wife?”

“I don’t want to fight, Jack. I just want to find the girl.”

Pernell clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. “I haven’t had a good fight in a long time. I’m probably outclassed trying to pick one with you.”

“I know better. You’re the man who taught me how to fight dirty.”

“I’m the man who taught you there’s no such thing as dirty fighting. There’s just fighting.”

They shared a smile in recognition of the truth. The only truth.

“You weren’t the best recruit I had,” said Pernell, staring at the swimming pool. “There were a couple better. Hector Cinque…he had the fastest hands I ever saw. He’s dead now. Shot through the throat five years ago during an extraction outside of Mombasa.”

“I heard the diplomat they pulled in didn’t even have anything useful.”