That got me both eyebrows and a frown, and I wondered if I'd overplayed my hand, "Hey, hey, Mr. Abhibe; I meant no disrespect to Mr. Burban. It was the best way I could think of to get her to leave without downright throwing her out. I didn't know anything about trouble in the family!"
Den enjoyed watching me squirm almost as much as I hated doing it. He twisted the knife, "But surely you'd heard rumors, Mr. Reynolds; after all, you are a detective." He grinned evilly yet again.
I kept playing my part as fish-on-hook, "Okay," I snarled as meekly as I could — God, I hate this! — "so I'm not a great detective. I didn't know. I just figured she'd go running home in disgust, leaving me with a slap on the face to remember — but whole, nonetheless."
"Who did she want you to find?" Den was all business, now.
"We never got to that," I said sheepishly — if my hands were free .
"Why? What did you talk about?" Suspicion.
"Me, mainly. What a scumball I was; what a high-class dame she was; why I should consider myself lucky that she was gracing my office with her fine figure — basically, I kept her talking about anything but this 'case' she wanted me on.
"She just wouldn't leave."
Den smiled again, and, for the first time, I saw a genuine, non-hostile, emotion behind that leering grin and slimy exterior — relief. Somebody had him by the short hairs, and he just felt the tension ease off.
Pulling out his pocket watch and winding it, Abhibe spent a few more seconds making me sweat—but I was already fairly sure of the outcome. He believed me and I had ... amused him sufficiently that he would probably let me go. I tried not to visibly relax, however — a jerk like Den Abhibe usually likes to see people sweat.
Finally, he stood up. I had nearly given up on my bonds — as it looked like I wouldn't need to free myself —but I found I could slip my hand out. I didn't, though; there was no need to make the guy nervous.
"Your story tells me much, Mr. Reynolds." Pure camel-manure, of course; he was just baiting me. I tried to look anxious as he continued, "I think more than you know" — crap — "Mrs. Burban has tried to entice you into some sort of questionable enterprise and you," and he sneered here, "were too frightened to accept."
This was getting to be a bit much. I like to think my natural shrewdness and inner strength kept me from slipping my bonds, leaping out of the chair, and tearing Den a new nostril — but, I have to admit, the goon with the tommy-gun was probably part of the reason. Still, if I had been one of those "Nile heroes" you read so much about, I wouldn't have let it phase me.
So, swallowing my pride, I shrugged and looked at the floor, "Hey; a guy's gotta look out for himself. I knew Jennie was bad business from the moment she strolled in here. I wasn't gonna be nobody's fool."
Den grinned even wider and chuckled. He looked over at the goon who took the cue and let loose with a deep laugh of his own. It even sounded like a gorilla's "bark." As a matter of note, his weapon was now dangling from one great paw. Ah, well; it looked like I wouldn't need it anyway.
Lighting another cigarette, the gangster-inquisitor tossed the match on the floor — I guess he had no more room for politeness, now that his business was concluded. "Well, Mr. Reynolds; it has been a pleasure 'doing business' with you." Abhibe looked at the five-royal note on my desk and laughed, "When Mr. Burban returns, I will have to tell —"
He froze.
I, in my chair, mimicked him. Damn it all; why now?!
Trying to look like the last few seconds hadn't happened, I ignored Den and looked at the goon in the corner. Good — he didn't see anything.
"Hey, Bonzo," I called, hoping my false bravado would distract Den, "since we're all pals again — how about untying me? I could use a stiff drink."
Damn me, but the gorilla actually started forward.
Den, however, was not so willing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reynolds, but it seems we have not concluded our business after all."
I turned, and Den was standing on the other side of the desk, reaching into his suitcoat with his right hand. I didn't think he was reaching for a cigarette. His eyes were hard and the scar on his face pulsed with red flame. Still, I could tell he was silently cursing himself and me for his slip. Hey, I wanted to say, what can you do? This ain't the realm for subtlety.
What could I do? In the few seconds before Abhibe could draw his gun, I had to think of something. Playing the "dumb dick" wouldn't work again — and I wasn't going to do anymore cowering. But what? If I didn't think of something before Iniquity Abhibe drew his weapon, I was finished. I knew his type — if they pull a gun, they're going to use it.
"Uh," I stammered, looking at the smoking ember of his camel and the tight, hard lips that gripped it, "how about a cigarette for me?"
Den stopped again and stared. He wasn't a fool. He knew I was buying time. But this gambit distracted him from his own error. A slow smile crept over his face. Sure, I could almost hear his mind think, let the worm squirm a little longer.
Max Burban's chief gangmember knew how to appreciate the little things that made being a sadist fun.
Shifting the hand in his coat a little higher, Den said, "Of course, Mr. Reynolds," and pulled out that gold case. Without taking his eyes off mine, he flipped it open — one handed — extracted a cigarette with his fore and middle fingers, clicked the case shut, and put it back in his pocket.
I think I was supposed to be impressed, so I ogled faithfully. Den rewarded me with another smirk and, leaning across the desk, put the cigarette in my mouth. From the corner of my eye, I saw his bodyguard raise his weapon — he wasn't sure what was going on, but he finally sensed that the situation had changed. I forgot about the gun in my drawer. With the trigger-man alert and Den in my face, it might as well be back on the moon.
Den stepped back quickly, and it was my turn to grin. I don't know what he'd expected, but, for some reason, he was again in a hurry to get this over with. He started to reach for his gun again.
"Hey, hey!" I barked, trying to keep the unfamiliar cylinder from falling out of my mouth, "don't I even get a light?"
That restored Abhibe's greasy confidence. Instead of going into his suit, his hand gestured at Kong-in-the-Corner. The obedient bodyguard lowered his gun and fished in his own pocket. Drawing out a matchstick, he lumbered over to my side, struck it on my desk, and held it up in front of my face.
Sucker.
Slipping out of the cord that no longer bound my hands, I slammed my left palm upward, smashing the lit match into the goon's surprised face. I'm sure it didn't burn him or anything, but it caught him by surprise. That allowed me to jump up, snake my right hand under his and around the tommy-gun's stock and yank it out of his weakened grasp. I stomped on his instep for good measure and then stepped behind him. He stumbled forward, clutching at his eye—hey, it looked like I'd gotten lucky — and I brought the barrel around to point at the object of my anger.
Too late.
Den had the handle of a strange-looking raygun in his right hand and it was pointed in my general direction. Luckily, Den hadn't been desperate enough to try to shoot through his own goon — maybe the gun had some sort of backlash at close range—but that allowed me time to point my weapon at him.
"Standoff," he said, his hard face no longer that of a greasy businessman, but more resembling a marble statue — a statue that killed people regularly.
I thought for a second as the bodyguard hopped out of the line of fire. He groaned. I paid him minimal attention. A slip here and it was all over. I'd be joining my dead girlfriend in a few moments.
I gambled that Den wanted out of this as much as I did.
"Look, Abhibe; today I've been bitched at, played with, moaned to, slugged over the head, tied up, and just plain annoyed. If you want to pulled the trigger, go ahead — but unless you're interested in stopping half the bullets in this drum, I suggest you just get the hell out of my office."
He looked like he was considering, but didn't flinch. Damn. I continued:<
br />
I don t know what you or Durban or that slut wife of his are cooking up in your scheming" — I figured it was better than "twisted" — "little brains, but I'm sick of it. I don't know why your goons slugged me or what the hell we've been talking about for the last hour, but, at this point, I couldn't care less! I've got a headache as big as Mobius' ego, and I want a drink. So could we cut through the crap already?" That was my best pitch. I hoped it would work.
At first I was sure it hadn't. Abhibe just stood there, staring with those killer black eyes into my soft brown's. Then, suddenly, he let his arm fall to his side. He relaxed.
I didn't. "Fine," I barked, "since we aren't going to kill each other, how about getting out of my office. I've got places to go and Scotch to drink."
The smirk returned and Abhibe signaled his pet mus-cleman out the door. Still clutching his left eye with one hand, the walking colossus shuffled out the door and down the hallway. Abhibe turned to go, and I rattled the gun's drum against its stock. He turned questioningly but, damn him, with no fear on his face.
I blurted out, more bluster than sneer, "And you can pay for the door."
Tossing a few new bills on my desk that probably amounted to more than this month's rent payment, Den Abhibe left me alone with his laughter.
The Sands of Change
Steven Brown
March 12 Cairo
Mother,
I have just received your New Year's letter (international postal situations being as they are, this is a rather quick turnaround, don't you think?) and, God, but it was good to hear news of home.
I am sorry to hear that the Hendricksons next door have transformed into dwarves. It is somewhat fitting, though, as they had rather a penchant for stone gardens and Mr. H was an incessant tinkerer. Do try to be understanding about it, though. After all, the change is mostly cosmetic. The Hen-dricksons are still the same in their hearts, just a little more compact, really. Times like these often bring out changes in people — the stress and the worry — be thankful they didn't become ogres ... literally.
You may be surprised to learn that, after four months, I am still in Cairo. To tell the truth, so am I. I had planned, you remember, to "see the global community." To travel to the four corners of the earth without staying overlong in any one cultural sphere, thus affording me a greater insight into the heart of man (and, with any luck, giving me the basis for an international best seller). I did not, however, plan on the wonder that is Cairo.
I do not know why this city has so captivated me. It certainly is not the grandest I've seen since leaving home two years ago. And with these "Possibility Wars" raging, it is not the most hospitable of places. But there is something that holds me here.
Perhaps it is my dreams.
Do you recall when, at the outset of my Freshman year, I called home complaining of strange dreams ? Dreams that were interfering with my studies. Dreams of machines andformulas that, even as a first year student, I patently knew were nonsense according to the natural laws of physics. Dreams that, when explained to my professors, led the entrance committee to review whether this new child prodigy didn't need a little more maturing before being accepted into Oxford.
Your advice was very clear and ultimately practical. "Philip," you said, "put these dreams behind you. Dismiss them. I know that, at your age, dreams can seem very real. But you yourself acknowledge that these are pure fantasy. Physical impossibilities. Do not let them ruin everything you have worked so hard to achieve. There will always be time for dreams later. When your work is done."
I followed your advice, applying myself twice as hard to my tutorials. By the end of the semester I was quite adept at ignoring the dreams. And by the end of my senior year they would cone only once or twice a month. And by the end of my Masters studies they'd stopped altogether. And by the end of my Doctoral thesis I'd forgotten them utterly.
But here in Cairo, my dreams have returned. Fabulous gadgets dance through my sleep performing blatant impossibilities. Rube Goldberg designs float before my mind's eye and, contrary to every axiom I've ever been taught, I know they will work. And, invariably, when I build a prototype, they do work. Against all reason, they work marvelously.
There is a magic in Cairo. The magic of the ages tinged with the promise of tomorrow. It has touched my dreams, grabbed my heart, and it will not let go until what is trapped within is set free.
Philip Geoffrey Collington put down his fountain pen and quickly reviewed his writing.
"The beginning is good," he thought, "but then it becomes rather self-involved. Altogether too introspective to post home. And it seems to be leading somewhere, building up to something, but ..."
Philip looked at his watch: 5:37. He was saved from further self-analysis by the realization that he was late. Capping his pen, he stood and removed his laboratory smock.
Absentmindedly, he crossed the one huge room that was his apartment and workshop, bumping into a chalkboard here and narrowly missing a table corner there. Late afternoon sunlight fought its way through several grime encrusted windows. This lent an amber tint to the quarters which gave Philip the feeling of being part of an old tin-type photograph.
At the door he hung his smock on the coat rack and took down an army-surplus vest. As Philip donned it two aspects of the garment became obvious. First was the fact that the vest was easily five sizes too large and swallowed his bony midsection, leaving two toothpick arms dangling out the sides. Second was the overabundance of pockets. Pockets everywhere. A large pocket over each breast with two smaller ones under each, a belt-level tube-pocket that wrapped completely around the back, a cavernous pocket across the entire back eliminating the need for a ruck sack, as well as innumerable smaller burrows and storage slots that dotted the collar and inseam. These, coupled with the utility pockets on his trouser thighs and his compartmented tool belt, gave the impression that Philip could carry a Sherman tank inconspicuously, if he had the strength. But it was comically clear, from the meager proportions of the limbs that stuck out of the vest, that he didn't.
Philip checked the front pockets for his wallet, keys, sunglasses, notebook, pocket knife, can opener, magnifying glass, and miniature tape recorder. All were in their appointed pockets. Satisfied that he had everything he'd need for a few hours outside the lab, Philip stepped out into the street.
Instantly he was reminded that, despite the usefulness of its many pockets, his vest was a terrible thermal burden. Luckily, the heat of the day had broken and the temperature had already dropped to a manageable ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit.
Like most afternoons, there was very little activity in the neighborhood. Some children kicked a tattered football around, and traffic could be heard in the distance, but very few adults could be seen. All the men were downtown earning their wages (some more honestly than others). All the women were at home preparing the evening meal, attending the open-air markets, or tending house and supervising children too small to roam the streets.
Cairo was, in many ways, a stratified city. It started in the center with the ultra "modern," high-priced business and tourist districts. If you worked in Cairo there was a 75% chance that you worked within the ten square blocks that made up downtown. If you were a white-collar worker, particularly in a syndicate-owned company, you probably lived somewhere in the five square blocks surrounding downtown. The secretaries, clerks and bookkeepers lived in the next ten block zone. And so it went. Each tier moving another rung down the social ladder and another step closer to the desert which all but engulfed the outermost tent neighborhoods.
Philip's room was in one of the middle tiers. The people were by no means rich, but they were perpetually on the verge of striking it middle-class. The neighborhood was populated by taxi drivers, janitors, shop clerks and foreigners who planned to stay.
Three- and four-story apartment buildings were erected capriciously, forming a ground-level labyrinth where an unwary traveller could literally lose himself for hours, if not days. A few of
the buildings had grocery shops, family restaurants or bars on the first floor, but not many.
Walking north from his building, Philip made two turns to the left, one to the right, another left and followed a zig-zagging road nearly a quarter mile until he came to a cul-de-sac formed by three buildings situated too close together. The middle one was built with a deep cement foundation (a rarity among the local architecture) and so had the neighborhood's only basement.
If this weren't remarkable enough, above the stairwell leading down was the neighborhood's only neon sign. Yellow and green lights were arranged in the shape of a palm tree, the trunk of which overhung "The Watering Hole."
The stairs were lit by a single bulb that was necessary anytime after three p.m. (when the sun fell behind the cul-de-sac walls). At the bottom was a strong oak door, with a hinged peep window at eye level.
Philip knocked once on the left side of the closed window, twice on the right and then kicked hard once. Immediately the window opened and was filled with a shiny, green, bloodshot eye.
"What's for dinner?" the eye asked gruffly.
Philip blinked blankly.
"Lamb Cheops," he finally said.
The peephole slammed shut and for a moment Philip was afraid he'd flubbed the counter-sign. Oh, bother, he thought and was about to knock again when the door creaked open. A cool breeze smelling of liquor escaped.
"Sorry," said the man who belonged to the bloodshot eye. "Lock jammed. Hafta oil it," he explained in a soft grumbly voice as Philip entered.
"Not to worry, Tim old man. How have you been lately?" Philip tried to look and sound casual but didn't quite pull it off.
A short, deep grunt was the bouncer's only reply as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the door waiting for the next coded knock.
Philip accepted this as meaning, "Fine, thank you, Philip. So nice of you to ask," and made his way to the interior of the bar. Tim always made him nervous. Perhaps it was the fact that the man loved the violent side of his job a bit too much. More likely it was just his sheer size, standing six foot ten and weighing nearly four hundred solid pounds. But Philip maintained that it was because no matter when or where he saw Tim, no matter the heat or wind, his eyes were always bloodshot and they always shone bone dry. He seemed physically incapable of shedding even a single tear.
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