Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Then that sounds great.” Brad’s face reflected his gratitude. In one fell swoop he had solved three major problems—a place to stay, food, and keeping expenses down.

  “Okay, in that case, if you work five evenings a week, Monday through Friday, let’s say from five to eleven—and we can be flexible if you want a specific evening for something—we’ll make the monthly rent two hundred instead of two-fifty.”

  “No,” Brad protested. “The two-fifty stands, and I work to justify that.”

  “But I would pay more than that for a clerk—” Shadmi saw the look on Brad’s face and stopped. “Okay, the two-fifty stands, but you can eat lunch here anytime you’re at the hotel, in addition to all other meals. That’s final,” he said firmly. “That way we both benefit. You can start tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” Shadmi boomed heartily. “Tomorrow I’ll have Miri show you what must be done. In the evening, there is not much that is difficult.”

  Nathan laughed at Brad’s sudden look of dismay. “Did you meet Miri too? I am afraid my sister was upset last night.”

  “It was nothing,” Brad said.

  Shadmi sighed. “That’s my Miri.” He stood up, stuck his head out of the office door, and bellowed, “Miri!”

  Brad held his breath, expecting that battering ram of sound to hurl to the floor everything not tied down, but all was silent for a moment. Then he heard the click of heels on the polished marble floor.

  Miri was wearing a soft beige dress with dark brown trim and a neck scarf that pleasantly accented the golden tan of her arms and legs. Her head was high, the dark eyes flashing. If her father’s call had intimidated her in any way, she was disguising it well. There was no air of open defiance, but she was miles from cowering in abject fear of rebuke.

  Then Brad decided that Shadmi’s thunderous summons must be his normal substitute for a public address system, for he was not angry with her at all. As she came to stand by him, he put his arm around her waist and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  “Brad, this is my daughter Miri. I understand you met last night.”

  Brad stood up. “Yes, we did,” he replied, noting with satisfaction that her cheeks had colored slightly.

  “Miri, this is Brad Kennison, from Utah.”

  She stepped forward and stuck out her hand, her eyes widening slightly. Her impression the previous night had been that of a sloppy, ill-kempt, and ill-mannered American—typical of so many found on the tourist lanes of the world. But now he was well groomed, neatly dressed, and quite pleasant-looking—quite good-looking, she thought begrudgingly. His gray eyes were clear and met her gaze steadily, holding out an obvious flag of truce. His look was friendly, his mouth on the verge of a smile if given the slightest encouragement. She glanced at her father and then decided Mr. Kennison had already received too much encouragement. “How do you do, Mr. Kennison.” The huskiness of her voice made it difficult to read, but it certainly wasn’t dripping with cordiality.

  “Mr. Kennison is going to be staying with us indefinitely, Miri. We have worked out an arrangement.”

  “I expected that you would,” she said with obvious sarcasm. She shot Ali a quick look, which he fielded with a bland smile.

  “He will have his room and any and all meals for two hundred and fifty American dollars per month.” Her father stopped and looked at her as he heard the sharp intake of her breath. Her eyebrows shot up in a look of shocked surprise, confirming Brad’s conclusion that Shadmi had given him a super deal.

  “And,” Shadmi said firmly, “he will become our evening desk clerk five nights a week. Starting tomorrow night.”

  That succeeded in getting through her tight selfcontrol. Her eyes flicked instantly from surprise to anger. “Father,” Miri said, her mouth a tight line, “you don’t even know him!”

  “I do now,” Shadmi said. “Besides, he’s a friend of Ali’s.”

  She dismissed that contemptuously with a toss of her head. “But this morning you said I would be taking the evening shift.”

  “Yes, that was before. I don’t like the idea of your being here alone. Once we get your Uncle Shlomo’s business going well, then I won’t have to be gone every night. For now, this is a good solution.”

  “But he’s American!” From the way she spit out the word it was clear that ranked him somewhere between boils and bad breath.

  For the first time, Shadmi’s voice turned sharp. “Miri! That’s enough!”

  But it wasn’t sufficient to stop the explosion. Brad watched almost in awe as she turned on her father and launched into a tirade in their own language. Her body was rigid and poised like a spear in the hands of a javelin thrower. Her head was held high, regally, like a queen, revealing the graceful lines of her neck. As she tossed her head angrily, her hair reflected the overhead lights in quick bursts of brilliance. The dark eyebrows had drawn down almost to a point as her eyes narrowed into angry slits.

  But Shadmi must have dealt with this towering temper before, for he stood his ground as the words tumbled out in a wild torrent. Brad caught the word American at least three times as she spoke.

  Suddenly her father thundered out a blast with such force that it made his earlier summons seem like an asthmatic whisper. It was as though a huge boulder had been dropped directly over the cone of an erupting volcano. One instant there was fire and spewing lava. The next instant there was a complete cutoff. But one could sense the seething force inside threatening to find new vents of escape for the pressure. Miri shot Brad and Ali one quick, withering glance, then turned and stalked out.

  Shadmi shook his head and heaved a great sigh. In the awkward silence it sounded like a force-six gale. “I hope you’ll forgive my daughter, Brad. In an hour or two she will calm down, and then she will be very embarrassed and come and apologize to you.”

  Brad managed a tight smile, trying not to let his own anger show. “Look, if you promised your daughter the job of evening clerk, I can find something else.”

  Nathan, who had remained unperturbed through his sister’s outburst and his father’s response, laughed out loud, his brown eyes deeply amused. “Promised her! When Father told her about it this morning we had a scene nearly as explosive as what you’ve just witnessed. She said she had too much to do in the evenings, that she couldn’t be here night after night. No, she is just angry that Father has accepted a lesser rate, and from an American at that. It has nothing to do with you personally.”

  Ali stood up and poked Brad in the ribs. “I’m just glad I’ve repented of being an American.”

  Brad shook his head, remembering the contempt in Miri’s voice when she used the word. “Somehow I thought Israel and America were allies.”

  “I think we owe you an explanation for that,” Nathan said. “America is Israel’s greatest friend. Perhaps too great a friend.”

  Brad looked puzzled.

  “There are some in Israel—an increasing number—who think we depend on America too much. Now the oil crisis comes and suddenly America begins to pressure Israel to accept the unacceptable.” Nathan’s brow furrowed as he continued. “There are some who think America is too weak to stand for what is right anymore. They fear your country is willing to sell out Israel in order to be comfortable.”

  It was evident from the somberness of Nathan’s tone that Miri was not the only one in the Shadmi family who had those concerns.

  “There are many in America who agree with that one hundred percent,” Brad said, matching his own tone to that of the younger Shadmi’s. “Unfortunately, our leaders do not speak for the people often enough.”

  “That we know,” Nathan agreed. “We have great confidence in America, the people. But in America the government? Miri just hasn’t learned to distinguish between those two yet.”

  “Well,” Ali broke in, glancing at his watch, “Ahkmud should be here any minute now to pick me up. C’mon, I’ll walk you out.” Brad shook hands again with Shadmi and Nathan
, thanking them.

  As Brad and Ali reached the lobby doors, Nathan called, his face split by a wide smile. “If you’d like, Brad, I’ll train you on the desk tomorrow instead of having Miri do it.”

  Brad gave him a thumbs-up sign. “You’re on! Terrorists I can face, but it might be wise to steer clear of her for a while.”

  Six

  By the time he finished breakfast—an interesting combination of cucumbers, tomatoes, cheese, boiled eggs, hard rolls, and bitter, dark hot chocolate—Brad had overcome the effects of a second night of jet lag and was feeling nearly normal. He had awakened at the same time as the night before, but instead of fighting it, he had gotten up and written the postcards to Karen and all of his family. By three-thirty he felt sleepy again and had slept deeply until seven.

  Brad took the stairs up from the basement dining room two at a time, actually looking forward to the day. However, his pace slowed abruptly as he came up into the lobby. The girl was at the counter helping a small group of tourists check out. He was hoping that either Mr. Shadmi or Nathan would be around to orient him to his new job and give him some directions on where he wanted to go today. Irritated by her previous manner, Brad walked up boldly.

  The expression in her eyes was still impossible to read, but she managed a fleeting smile. “Good morning.”

  “Hi,” Brad responded, encouraged by the lack of open hostilities.

  “Mr. Kennison, I want to apologize for yesterday. I was very rude. I’m sorry.” The apology was obviously difficult for her. Her cheeks were reddening, and those large brown eyes dropped as he watched her.

  “No apology necessary.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Is Nathan around? He was going to teach me about running the desk.”

  “No, he’s gone until this afternoon. He said he’d meet you at four o’clock and show you then.”

  “Okay.” Brad did some quick calculations. He’d just have to do the car first and Nathan later.

  Miri looked at him steadily for a long moment. “I could train you now, but then maybe you’d rather face a terrorist.” She smiled sweetly.

  Brad’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut again, and he felt his face go instantly hot. He shot her a glance, then looked away quickly when he saw the look of triumph that she was making no effort to hide. For a moment he sought for some appropriate response, but finally gave it up. She had him, and it was his own fault. He should have known she was still somewhere around the lobby when Nathan had called to him yesterday. Then he felt his embarrassment start to give way to anger. The comment he had made yesterday was not totally undeserved. His hackles started to rise. Why was this woman needling him?

  “Look,” he said shortly, “could you tell me where I can find a good automobile mechanic? I need to get Ali’s car fixed.”

  The air of triumph slowly dissolved, and the cool reserve slipped back into place. She thought a moment, tapping a pen gently on the counter. “Minor repairs or major?”

  “Fairly minor. Ali thinks it’s a fuel pump.”

  “There is a garage not too far from here, near the Damascus Gate. Do you know where that is?”

  Brad nodded. He hadn’t the slightest idea, but it would have taken the combined fortunes of Howard Hughes and the Rockefellers to make him admit it.

  “Go east from the gate one block to Saladin Street. Turn left. The garage is three blocks north on Saladin Street. It is on the right-hand side of the street. It’s not very big, so you will have to watch for the sign. It is called Mohammed’s Garage.”

  “Mohammed?” Brad asked dubiously.

  “Yes. Is something wrong?”

  “Well, no. Do you happen to know a Jewish mechanic?” The instant it was out he regretted it. What in the world had prompted him to say that?

  Miri’s eyebrows had lifted slightly, and her eyes started to smoulder. “You would rather not have an Arab mechanic?” she asked.

  “No, it’s not that. I’d just rather—never mind, Mohammed’s is fine.”

  But Miri wasn’t about to let him stop. “You would just rather what?”

  His anger, now as much at himself as at this cool, raspy woman, threw him off balance. “I don’t know. It’s just that—well, you know how the Arabs are,” he finished lamely.

  He had been mistaken about her eyes. They weren’t smouldering at all. They were like two dark brown chunks of antarctic rock. “Oh, really?” she murmured. “I’m an Arab.” With that she spun away and went into the office, slamming the door behind her.

  * * * * * *

  Brad set the guidebook aside, giving it up as a lost cause. He glanced at the wall clock. It was ten minutes to eleven, and his first shift as evening clerk at the Jaffa Hotel was nearly over.

  It had been a busy evening, and Nathan had stayed around helping him as needed until almost nine-thirty. Brad hadn’t seen Miri since his return from Mohammed’s Garage, and had hurried through the lobby while she was on the telephone. Even now the very thought of Mohammed’s Garage made him wince. What in the world had ever made him say such a stupid thing? He had undergone a critical self-analysis since his morning blunder, and each time he concluded that his statement about Arabs did not reflect his true feelings. He thought of Ali and shook his head. She must think you’re really something, he thought. You let an Arab find you an incredible deal on a hotel. You let him find you a job the first day after you arrive in a strange city. And you let him give you a car without being asked. Then you come off the wall with, “Oh, you know how Arabs are.”

  Brad shook his head, angry at himself that he should care what she thought. She was rude, impertinent, and had deliberately goaded him. He was so flustered by her, he had lost his balance for a moment. He felt a little better knowing he could honestly say those were not his true feelings, but he still felt so stupid to have said it. And to have said it to an Arab was even worse. Just how dense could one person be?

  And speaking of being stupid, why had he assumed the Shadmis were Jewish? He groaned inwardly, torn between self-condemnation and irritation at Miri Shadmi. Suddenly Brad’s head jerked up. Hey, wait a minute. Answer your own question. Why did you think the Shadmis were Jewish?

  He let his mind run swiftly over the past two days. Ali had never said anything about their nationality one way or the other that Brad could remember. But when Miri had launched into her tirade yesteday in the office, he had assumed she was speaking Hebrew. He shook his head. His ear wasn’t trained enough to distinguish between Hebrew and Arabic. He frowned, then nearly leaped off his chair. Nathan was a colonel in the Israeli army! Now maybe he didn’t know much about Hebrew, but he knew enough to know that Arabs didn’t become colonels in the Israeli army. Things began to click. Levi Shadmi. An Old Testament name. A Jewish name, not Moslem. So was Nathan. Another thought flashed back. When Ali had introduced Brad to Mr. Shadmi, the greeting had been, “Shalom, shalom.” A linguistic expert he was not, but he knew at least one word of Hebrew. His eyes narrowed as a slow, burning anger began to ignite down deep inside him. There was no excuse for his stupid remark, but fair was fair. And Miri Shadmi had not played fair!

  Saud, the night clerk, came in shortly before eleven. After a brief self-introduction and a friendly conversation, Brad heaved himself to his feet with a sigh. “Well, I’m ready for bed. I’m glad to meet you. See you tomorrow night.” He started away and then, on a sudden impulse, turned back.

  “Saud?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you tell me a little bit about the Shadmis?”

  A sudden wariness sprang into the Arab’s face. “The Shadmis?” he asked slowly.

  Sensing his hesitation, Brad leaned back against the counter and briefly explained how he had come to be the evening clerk at the Jaffa Hotel. “So anyway,” he concluded, “it was very good of Mr. Shadmi to help me out, and I just wanted to learn a little more about him.”

  “Yes,” Saud said, anxious now to help. “Mr. Shadmi is a very good man. They are a good family.”

 
; “Are they Jewish?” Brad asked casually.

  “But of course,” Saud said. “Nathan and Miri are what the Israelis call sabras.”

  “Sabras?”

  “An Israeli who is born in Palestine is a sabra. It comes from the Hebrew word meaning—how do you say it? Kahk-a-toos?”

  The lack of comprehension on Brad’s face was evident, so Saud tried again. “Kahk-a-toos. It is the plant with sharp stickers.”

  “Oh, cactus.”

  “Yes, kahk-a-toos. The Israelis call themselves sabras because like the kahk-a-toos, they are sharp and prickly on the outside, but the flowers and the fruit are beautiful and very sweet.” Saud laughed, half to himself. “If you do not get stuck getting close to them. It is a good description of Israelis, no?”

  Brad smiled ruefully. “It sure is, especially the first part.” His nose still smarted from running full tilt into her spiny exterior. “Are there other children?”

  “There was an older brother named David. He was killed in the Six Day War. So now there is just Nathan and Miriam.”

  “Miriam?” Brad asked in surprise. He hadn’t thought about it being a nickname. Miri could pass for Arabic with a dumb American. But Miriam? No way! So Jewish as to be unmistakable. He threw another log on the growing fire.

  “Well, thanks, Saud. I’d better get to bed. I’m still trying to adjust to Middle Eastern time, and my need for sleep has just caught up with me.”

  The latter proved to be an optimistic conclusion. Sleep didn’t have a chance for the next hour and a half, as he lay in bed polishing off some very fiendish plots having to do with one Miriam Shadmi, former Arab and current kahk-a-toos.

  Seven

  It was perfect. The hallway was long and narrow, and there was only one entrance into the small linen room. And Miri had just gone inside.

  He hadn’t expected his opportunity to come so soon, but he was ready. A movie star, preparing to audition for the coveted role of the century, could not have rehearsed his lines any more thoroughly than Brad had prepared for this scene as he lay awake last night.