Mourad liked nightclubs but rejected dancing. He talked little. His drinking, to make up for both, was extensive. No one could match him, beer for beer, and not show it. His pleasure in going out was in solidifying this reputation. He decided to start a mustache, and before long he was not so much well liked as he was recognizable and respected. His club of choice was Reach. He was often pointed out and referred to in conversation there. As Aziz had hoped, after a while, when it became standard to say, “He could drink—not like Mourad, of course—but he could drink,” Mourad allowed the television to be moved into the living room.

Aziz was unemployed. His jobs were many, his time at most short. His jobs, he realized, lacked titles. He was not a painter, just someone who scraped or hammered when told. He was not a janitor, only someone who hosed sidewalks or emptied trash. He was a busboy who never made it to waiter. He was someone who raked leaves or watered grass, not a gardener. Gas station attendant was a title, but one he mumbled when asked.

It was forever a hard thing, looking for a job. With Mourad paying for things, the incentive to go for interviews and be turned away was smaller than ever. This backsliding had no consequence. His mother and father were overjoyed. They finally could afford to buy a car, ten years old, to replace the always failing motorbike. His mother went to the doctor for the first time in years, and they discovered she was in perfect health, even though they had worried for so long about her shortness of breath. They were informed she needed exercise. She began walking down at the beach every morning. She is singing again, Aziz’s father told him. These respites came and more followed. Soon Amina and the one with no finger folded away into drawers Aziz stopped opening. Rafik’s and Aziz’s fathers no longer called about stowaways from Arzew. Rafik stood watch less and went to Reach more.

Luxury—Rafik could not have it at Brooks Street. Mourad tossed one of Rafik’s stolen cameras, then a week later its replacement. He disposed of gold lighters, fine wallets, Italian sweaters, even a set of kitchen knives they all loved. Mourad took the phone out of Rafik’s hands if the talk was suspicious. Now the entrepreneur took most calls on a windy cell phone outside the front door.