Mysterious Cairo

by Edited By Ed Stark

  The little street-rat looked thoughtful. For a moment, I saw the real Aladda—the calculating, sinister assassin that Skinny Nick used as his main negotiator, collector, and . representative. Then the simpering smile and nodding head came back.

  "I will be sure to so inform him. I think two days is reasonable, Jackie." He started to head back towards the crowd and then bowed again, "please be reasonable, Jackie." Then he was gone.

  "Yeah, sure," I muttered.

  I wasn't sure what was going on, but I was finally in the right place: the Northside Watershed. A strange name for a bar, but this is a strange town.

  I walked easily down the stone steps that led to the speakeasy's only public entrance. I'd heard rumors that the owner had a bolt hole out the back, through or under the Chinese laundry, and I'd be surprised if he didn't. Even if Mobius' goons pretty much ignored what went on in Cairo, there were occasions.

  I rapped on the metal door.

  Some squeaking inside, and a circular steel plate flipped up. It revealed a large nose and two bright blue eyes.

  "Whassa password, buddy," the voice slurred.

  "The dog barks in the wind, Julius, and Mr. Tibbs is in Burbank on vacation." It was a little joke I could share with Jules, the three-ton blue-eyed tank that posed as the bar's bouncer. It was a good disguise. If he didn't recognize you, or if you tried to bull your way in, he was strong enough to rearrange your outlook on private property.

  Jules chuckled low in his throat — I think. It might have been a stomach disorder — and swung open the door.

  "Vedda funny, Mistah Rennolds," he said slowly. I stepped in before the rebounding inertia slammed the door again.

  "Hey," I jibed, "you guys ever come up with a password and tell me about it, I'll learn it. Until then, you'll have to live with my sense of humor." I walked towards the bar, ignoring Jules' comment about "there'll be plenty of room — it don't take up much space."

  As I'd expected, the bar was pretty empty. Only a few die-hard lushes, the girls coming on the night shift, and one or two regulars sat at the round wooden tables surrounding the stage. A beat-up old sign proclaimed "On Stage: Angie and the Mighty Pharaohs—A Limited Engagement." Like hell; Angie and her four musicians had been playing the Watershed since it was built. I heard they worked for room, board and drinks, and they had another line on the side.

  The last part was all I was certain of.

  I perched my skinny butt on the corner stool nearest the stage and waited for one of the bartenders to notice me. Funny thing about the Watershed, but there were always two tenders on duty — no matter how busy or slow they were.

  Today it was Benny Ruiti and Farastan Bengana. While Benny looked more at home in the bar — perhaps 'cause he'd tended bar back in Terra before being forced to immigrate — Farastan was the better drink mixer and tender of the two. I didn't know much about Farastan, but, when I'd done a job for his boss, I'd been surprised to learn that he was still a Core Earth native. Of course, that was a couple months ago.

  Farastan came over to me, his brown hands wiping a mug that was way past needing it.

  He smiled, "Got yerself a job, then, Jackie-boy?"

  I winced. "That obvious, Fast?"

  Grinning fit to split his face, Farastan shook his head, "No, laddie; just a wild guess."

  I groaned. Not only had he tipped my hand in two seconds — and I'd worked so hard on keeping my employment from Edgy — but I was going to get the Irish crap too.

  See, Farastan — or "Fast" as I call him — got taught English by the Terran Irishman who'd first owned the bar after the invasion. He'd picked up a little of his accent and a lot of his expressions. When Irish got rolled and crocodile-washed by one of Cairo's gangs, Farastan transfered his employment to the new owner of the bar — another Core Earther named McDowell. Rumor had it that McDowell had left Cairo recently, and that Fast and Benny were running the place for him. I couldn't confirm this and didn't care; I'd come here for my own reasons.

  I slapped a hand on the bar, "Scotch and water ... hold the water, Fast."

  His grin stayed in place; I guess I've become too obvious in other things as well. He already had the drink waiting, under the bar.

  "Jules-lad signalled, my boy. After all, you are a steady customer."

  Yeah, that's me; 'ol "cash-on-the-barrelhead Reynolds." Yet another gag. I paid when I could — overpaid, in fact, which is probably why Fast asked me if I was on a case.

  Yeah, Fast; you and me both.

  I chatted up Fast for a little while, letting the sun go down and the regular crowd trickle in. He was in a good mood and I couldn't get a damn thing out of him. Not that I'd expected to, of course, but it would have been nice, just once, for somebody to come up to me and say, "Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds, but I believe you're looking for this?" and hand me the solution on a silver platter. Hell, I'd take it on a paper plate if I could get one.

  It was seven o'clock before I knew it. Seven is when the first show starts, and I was looking forward to seeing Angie again. While she rubbed a lot of sores by means of reminding me of Mai Li, I enjoyed watching her work a crowd.

  And, like Mai Li, she had other assets.

  The stage lights came on. The band, hidden previously within the stage, rolled out into a pit. They started playing immediately as the stage opened up.

  Then Angie started to sing.

  Maybe it's a trademark thing or just an ego trip, but Angie never starts her first song of the night actually on stage. She's got a wire mike that can be plugged into any number of outlets all over the bar. She's popped up at tables, disguised in a heavy overcoat; she's come from behind the bar; and I was even here once when she began her act in the chandelier.

  Really. All this flash for a gin joint.

  Tonight Angie's voice preceded her again—but by a lot. Everybody in the place was looking around, trying to guess where she'd come from this time. Her voice was all over the place — a little tinny from the Terran-style speakers — but clear. I listened to her song:

  "You've got a little time on your hands, "You know a little girl

  down the road; "You want to take her out

  to the sands, "It's a little like life ..."

  The song was slow, and it was a long one — and Angie's voice was silken and sexy. She'd toy with the audience a long time tonight. It reminded me of Mai Li, and how the way she used to sing ... back in Sacramento. God, I miss —

  I shook my head and finished nursing my Scotch. The burning in my throat jump-started my heart. I needed a distraction.

  Looking around, I saw lots of curtains had gone up. The stage curtain, of course, was there; but I saw dark curtains around the entranceway, the cellar, and covering a few alcoves.

  Blinds, in more ways than one.

  Getting up, I was able to move to the back of the room easily. Everybody else was entranced, fascinated with Angie's voice, the Pharaohs' lilting music, and, most especially, her many possible entrances.

  I glanced at the bar. Fast had his eyes down, rubbing another of his clean-and-clear glasses, swaying to the music. He was no help. Benny alternated between flirting with a barmaid and shooting quick looks at one of the alcove curtains. So. I could be sure she wasn't coming from there — Benny's a terrible actor. "Leaving a note on the pillow, A flower on the stand; You've gotta give more, More than you can ."

  More melodrama. I ignored the voice and concentrated. The spotlights were playing about the room — let's see; where is ... ah!

  I looked at the three spotters — all young guys, all grips. Usually, Angie uses one spotter and he doesn't turn the lamp on until she's actually made her entrance. But this time the three men were moving the lights in a waving pattern, over the crowd, the stage, the curtains. Seeing one of the spotters I recognized, I moved over behind him. He was in a small swivel chair back to the left side of the stage. Moving around to the side, I got just close enough to look at his eyes.

  Following his line of sight, I guessed th
at he was looking at one of the curtained "alcoves" across the stage. That would be the entrance; his spot was coming no where near it. I took the long way around the bar and seated myself at the table nearest the alcove. I guessed this was one of the legendary "back doors" to the Watershed, but I couldn't be sure. It was certain that no noise was coming out from behind the curtain.

  Hell, I could have guessed wrong.

  Suddenly, all three spots shot to the curtain. There had been a brief pause in Angie's singing, and an upswing of music — I guess to cover her entrance. I looked up at the curtain as she stepped out. Right into her eyes.

  Angie's no beauty queen, mind you. In fact, she's a bit plain. Her hair was a dirty brown, but of good texture, and her complexion was a little too light for her washed-out blue eyes. Slim, she wore the sparkling red dress well, but you could see between the ruffled shoulders and the long, silk evening gloves that she had aged a little.

  Still, there was nothing old about her voice. Spotting me immediately, she shot me a few daggers with her eyes and gave the crowd a lungful of a high note. In the Nile Empire, I'd swear it was easier for a singer to break glasses than in Earth, but I can't prove it. Angie didn't smash any, but I could feel the vibrations right through the floor.

  The rest of Angie's act was nothing incredible. Like I said, she has a great doll's voice — high, but not so high as to make your ears hurt. Just enough huskiness for the nightclub scene. Letting myself get caught up in the music, I wondered yet again why she and the Mighty Pharaohs settled for a second-rate gig like the Watershed.

  Of course I knew. It was why I was here.

  After the applause and the bows and the obligatory encore, the crowd settled down to the business of alcohol consumption and Angie took a break. Or should I say she went to work? No matter.

  The singer for the Pharaohs nodded to her band, and they took up a soft, jazz beat. The spots had faded, and I could see Angie mentally adjust herself. With nothing but a shrug, she went from somewhat pretty performer to businesslike woman of iron. Still, when she walked through the crowd towards me, she managed to smile and nod at the other customers, saving her sharper glances for those she was farthest from.

  I've come to expect her habits, but it was still somewhat irritating when Angie went to a booth just a few feet from my table and seated herself back to me. As always, I had the brief urge to walk out and leave her sitting there. But, again as always, I told myself that this well of resources was too valuable to casually dry up. Sighing, I rose and, signalling Farastan for two of the usual, I walked directly over to her booth and sat down across from her.

  "That didn't take long, sport," Angie chuckled, her eyes dancing with amusement.

  "What didn't take long?"

  She shrugged a little, her eyes searching my bland expression. "No sooner do I hear Nick's put the word out, then you've got another case."

  Crap. If she knew about Nick, then — "What makes you think I've got a case, Ang?"

  This time her laugh was sarcastic—and maybe a little vain—"You always ruin my act when you've got a case, sport; tells me you're thinking about something."

  "Ah. I'll have to watch that."

  We clammed up when Farastan arrived with the drinks. I was about to tell the bartender to put it on my tab, when the Angie said:

  "My treat."

  I shot her a look, but her face was neutral. Farastan shrugged and headed back to the bar.

  I didn't comment, though, instead concentrating on my Scotch. It was a nice and full of flavor, which meant Fast also assumed I could afford the good stuff.

  I was getting too damned predictable.

  When Angie said nothing, I offered, "Thanks for the drink."

  Angie's face lit up like she'd won the daily double at the camel grounds, "anything for you, sweetheart," she purred, taking my drinking hand in hers.

  It's been a while, but I managed to keep the flush off my face and my mouth shut. Angie's face was warm and inviting, but her eyes were colder and more calculating than ever.

  Uh, oh.

  I leaned in close, as if to kiss her on her left cheek — the one nearest the wall. Instead, I whispered, "What's wrong?"

  She giggled like a schoolgirl and replied, softly, huskily, "We're being watched. Corner four and table six. Unknowns."

  Crap again. I had the luck of a penguin in the Sahara. Four ... no five weeks of nothing, and now I'm getting beat up, threatened, and tailed maybe because of a case I might have.

  I've just got to talk to Jennie Burban.

  Fighting a rising — and definitely unhealthy — irritation with fate, I smiled and batted my eyes (hey; I haven't pretended to be in love for months now). In a normal voice I said, "You're lipstick's smudged, dear," and I planted a soft peck on Angie's cheek.

  She took the hint, but I could tell she wasn't too pleased with my roleplaying — I'm not the only one who's lost someone special. Reaching into her "stage clutch," a little purse that did little more than dangle from her wrist when she sang, Angie pulled out a little compact.

  She made a show of checking her makeup, pivoting slightly with each dab or squint. When she was in the right position, or so I guessed, I leaned over and put my hand on her arm and my face close to her shoulder. From the room, I'm sure it looked like we were being snugly.

  The lengths I'll go to to preserve my skin.

  Angie moved the mirror slightly, showing me the reflection of one, and then the other, groups of tails. The first group I recognized — two of Nick's men. Bruiser types, but specialists. Back when I first came to Cairo and borrowed money from Nick, I met one of them when I was late for a payment. He came out of nowhere one night, reminded me about keeping my obligations, and then had the courtesy to call a doctor for me. I didn't know his partner, but I assumed the story was the same. Quick, smart, strong, and maybe — just maybe — a stormer.

  This was bad.

  The other group, however, was the one that caused the hackles to raise on my neck. There were four of them. Small and dressed in dark clothes, I couldn't tell that they were looking at me — or anyone in particular, for that matter — and that worried me. I trusted Angie's judgement, though; she spends a lot more time watching crowds than I do. Then one turned slowly, revealing his face.

  An oriental.

  I went cold.

  I'm sure I stared, so much so that Angie jostled me and giggled while giving me another warning glance. I had frozen up, and I might be blowing our act. Forcing myself to lean back and laugh — it sounded hollow as hell to me — I refused to even glance in their direction.

  An oriental. Four of them. In suits. More crap than the Pharaoh's stables.

  I suppose an explanation is in order here. As I've said before, I'm from Sacramento. I guess I'm one of the few people in the world who knows that the "miracle" there had nothing to do with Core Earth "fighting back against the invaders" as the Delphi Council says. Further, I think I may be only one of a handful of outsiders that knows that the sudden influx of "Japanese" to the West Coast wasn't just a "joint rebuilding effort" by the Japanese and American governments.

  That's why the orientals scared me. See, we have orientals in the Nile Empire. They're either little yellow guys dressed in black, brown, or white pajamas who go around bowing all the time, doing laundry, and generally mangling the English language — especially in the case of L's and R's; or we have the "inscrutable oriental gentleman" who either dresses like the Core Earth "Charlie Chan" detective or like Dr. Mobius' former Overgovernor Wu Han. The latter group are wise, devious, and very flashy in their own way.

  I doubted very much that the guys at table six had any problem with their accents, and they certainly didn't look like the inscrutable stereotype.

  They did look devious, though.

  I chatted amicably with Angie about nothing in particular — I think we were both trying to make each other sick with endearments — while continuing to think about my situation. I knew the bruisers and I had a pre
tty good idea about what they'd do — and when they'd do it. The orientals were a mystery, though. If I was right and they were from Nippon, then somebody may have decided that one more witness to their dealings needed to disappear. They could do it anytime, anywhere. That I saw them before they moved was more alarming than comforting.

  "Whenever you want, baby," Angie said in a husky voice. She leaned in close and gave me a warm, soft kiss.

  What? Oh,yeah. I'd been following along on autopilot, and I'd suggested finding somewhere "less crowded" where "we could be alone." Standard stuff, but I'd expected Angie to do a little rebuff.

  "Now's as good a time as any, sweetheart," I leered, my heart sinking. I downed the rest of my Scotch and stood up, offering my hand to "my one true love."

  Yeah, right.

  Angie accepted gracefully and stood. Apparently I was still acting a little stiff, because she flashed a little more leg than was necessary. Unfortunately, I was too caught up in the moment to enjoy the view.

  I "led" her by the arm, waiting for her to give us some direction. Not surprisingly, she headed towards the stage. It was fairly well known that the bar had only the one public entrance, and the secret one probably wasn't behind the stage. Good; that should satisfy the bruisers. They'd look for the obvious answer and wait.

  But what about the orientals? I'd just have to hope.

  Angie put a lot into the act. She was alternatively cooing like a teenager and wiggling like the most experienced . woman in the world.

  I must really have been stiff.

  Anyway, we made it to her dressing room pretty quick. I went in first, and she closed the door behind us. She stood with her back to the door, listening. She kept her eyes on me.

  "We don't have much time," she said. Nothing soft about that. Ah, well...