by Dean Ing
"And this is the Grand Socco, mate. Cooee, a fair cow, eh? Ever see so many wogs in your life?"
It was a large square, packed with humanity and with a hundred different varieties of stalls—flower booths, food stands, and herb stands, hashish being among the other so-called herbs. There were displays of vegetables, fruits, hand-woven textiles, yellow or white babouche slippers, and a multitude of other commodities, some seemingly desirable in the eyes of Moroccans and some aimed deliberately to attract tourists. There were still more of the Arabs and Rifs, plus sailors up from the port and European riffraff from a score of countries. Donkeys seemed to be the means of transport; no car could have gotten through the press of bodies. Odors of mint, saffron, and kif, the North African cannabis, mingled in the air.
Rather than press into the souk, the teeming native market, they turned left and did their best to get through the crowded way, the Australian in front, running interference. It seemed one hell of a strange location for an English-speaking bar.
Nat was explaining over his shoulder, "Paul's been here for donkey's years," he said. "He's so warm in half a dozen countries, he'll never be able to leave. Owes something like a hundred and fifteen years in Italy alone for smuggling, and with his TB he wouldn't last six months in one of those cold, damp, wop nicks. No extradition from Tangier. He'll never leave, oh my word. Interpol would grab him in ten minutes if he put a toe down in Gibraltar."
They arrived at Paul's Bar—there was a small faded sign hanging out in front.
Inside, it was dark and cool but hardly prepossessing. There were six or seven stools at the bar, three tables with chairs. On the walls were pasted aged clippings about the proprietor's exploits in the old days when he was allegedly a ranking lockpicker, screwsman, grifter, and smuggler. They were alternated with pinups from aged pornographic magazines. From the ceiling hung a fisherman's net and a ship's wheel which doubled as a chandelier, a vain attempt to give Paul's Bar a nautical decor.
There were only three people present—one slumped at a table, head on arms, one seated dejectedly on a stool at the bar with a bottle of beer before him, and the bartender himself. Automated bars seemed to be unknown in Tangier, at least in this part of town—the medina, as Nat had named it.
The bartender had once been a larger man. Now he was emaciated. His sallow face had a sardonic quality and he wore a moth-eaten Vandyke beard tinged with gray. He looked up when the newcomers entered and wiped the well-worn bar with a dirty bar rag, uselessly.
He said, "Cheers, Nat," then looked at Frank. It seemed that in Paul's Bar one was introduced before being served.
Nat and Frank crawled onto stools and the Austalian said, "Paul, meet Frank Pinell, a new cobber in town from the States. He's looking for a contact." Paul put a thin hand over the bar and shook hands. However, his eyes were narrow. "What kind of a contact?" he said. It was the tone that bothered Frank. He said, "Well, I don't know. Just about anything, I guess."
"You warm?" Paul Rund said. Frank thought he understood what the other meant. "Only in the States," he said. And then, not particularly liking this, added, "Why?"
Paul leaned on the bar and said, "Because this is a poxy town, Frank. There's no extradition laws, there's practically no laws at all, but what there are get pretty well obeyed, get it? This is the end of the line for a lot of grifters. There's no place else to go if they kick you out. So we're poxy careful not to foul our own nest, get it? We lay doggo, that's the word, lay doggo. We don't take no scores here in Tangier.
Absolutely. And the boys take a dim view if anybody tries it. We don't want the present easygoing laws to be no way changed."
"That's the dinkum oil," Nat said, nodding. "But you've got it wrong, Paul. Gawd strewth. Pull your head in. Frank didn't come here to do a romp. Deported from the States, he was. The poor cove's got to cobber up with somebody and get an angle."
Paul evidently took the tall Australian's word for it. He said, "Good show. Just wanted to tell you the drill here, Frank. You look like the type of sod who'd pinch something here in Tangier and put all our bloody arses in a sling. What'll it be, lads? First drink's on the bloody house, Frank."
Nat said, "Make it a couple of Storks, Paul." He looked at Frank as the bartender turned to serve them. "Not up to Aussie brew, strike me blind. But, from what I hear, better than you Yanks are turning out these days."
"It wouldn't have to be very good," Frank told him. "They make syntho-beer from sawdust or something."
The two took their bottles of beer and glasses and went to the remotest of the three tables and sat down. The beer glass wasn't clean but Frank didn't give a damn. He poured appreciatively. It was the first drink he'd had for several months and a lot of guff had been thrown at him in the past couple of days in particular.
"Not bad suds considering it's made by ragheads," his companion said, downing his whole glass in one vast draught. "The cheeky barstids don't suppose to ever enjoy a shivoo in their whole narky lives. Oh my word, no. Against Allah's buggering rules."
Frank didn't take much longer to finish his. The Aussie was right. It wasn't bad beer at all. Probably still made from malt and hops, he assumed, instead of the crap being turned out at home these days for the prole palate.
Nat said, "How about another, cobber?" He came to his feet. Frank said, "All right, but I ought to pay for this."
"Don't be a zany. You can't afford to play the toff until you get yourself settled in. Been down on the bone meself in me time. Settle down, cobber." The Aussie went over to the bar and secured another couple of bottles from the thin-faced bartender. Frank looked after him thoughtfully.
When he had returned and they had refilled their glasses, Frank held his up and said, "Thanks, Nat. Mud in your eye." Nat said, holding up his glass in toast, "Fuck Ireland." They both drank and then Frank said, "What did you say?"
"Oh. Fuck Ireland."
Frank looked at him. "Why?"
The Australian's easygoing face took an expression of being put upon. "Cooee, cobber, I don't know. That's what we say in Melbourne, strewth."
Frank said, "Look here, Nat. Do you always talk this way? I miss about half of what you mean."
Nat Fraser grinned, a ruefulness there. "A bit thick, eh? Always sets you Yanks back. I wasn't trying to cozen you."
Frank chuckled, the first occasion he could remember having done so for some time. He said, "All right, no harm done, but let's keep it on a level where we communicate."
"Fair dinkum."
The American looked about the room, then brought his eyes back to his newfound friend. "Nat," he said. "This doesn't exactly look like an employment agency. In fact, it's obviously a low-class bar where the town's less prosperous, uh, grifters, I believe is the term Paul used, hang out."
Nat looked around too, taking in the other customers, both on the seedy side. "Too right," he admitted. "Shall we do a bunk?"
"You mean get out? No," Frank told him. "Why'd you bring me here, Nat? "
The over-lengthy Aussie let his sun-faded eyebrows go up. "What-o, cobber? You think I was trying to cozen you?"
"Look," Frank said patiently, "I'm game, but not everybody's. I was walking along the street, minding my own business. Suddenly you're there, winsome as a pimp, but you sure as hell don't act like one. Fifteen minutes later, we're in this dump. Why?"
The Australian went over and got two more bottles of Stork beer and returned with them. He was grinning. "You said you were a deportee," he told Frank as he put the bottles down.
"So?"
"I'm the local recruiting sergeant, cobber."
* * *
Frank stared at him, even while upending the bottle over his glass. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Had any military training at all?"
"No."
Nat Fraser looked disappointed. "Don't twig anything about a shooter, eh? What did they nail you for, cobber?"
"I didn't say that. My old man was a gun crank. Had quite a collection. I didn't see
much of him but he used to get a kick out of showing me the workings of everything from cap-and-ball revolvers to new Gyrojets. What was I nailed for? Homicide."
The easygoing Aussie took him in for a long moment.
Frank said, "Recruiting sergeant for what?"
"Mercenaries, Incorporated."
Frank scowled. "Never heard of it."
"The Graf's outfit."
"Never heard of him, either. You mean professional soldiers of fortune?"
"That's the dinkum oil. This is one of the big staging areas for many a contract. The Graf gets a contract and we put the operation together here in Tangier."
"I thought Paul said you pulled nothing off here. That Tangier was sort of neutral ground. The boys, as he called them, didn't want to foul their own nest."
"Fair dinkum. We don't do anything here in Tangier. Just recruit blokes who want to earn a little money, and put the operation together. The Graf's sometimes got other operations going. We crew some of them, too. Aren't as many bloody contracts these days as there used to be, but some. Bush wars down south between all the dictators, presidents for life, and that whole mucking lot. Some in the Far East, too. But we don't handle those operations. They're based in Singapore and Penang. The Graf's got his representatives there as well."
Frank said, "Soldiers of fortune, eh? Hiring yourself out to kill for money." There was disgust in his voice.
The ordinarily amiable Aussie looked at him coldly. "What other reason is mere to fight, cobber? A soldier's job is to win wars. If you pick that pro-bloody-fession, you wind up killing people, usually other soldiers who've picked the same trade."
Some of his exaggerated Aussie slang seemed to have dropped away.
Frank said, "The theory is that the usual soldier is fighting for his country. He's doing his duty, defending it."
"Too right. That's the theory, but it's not the reality. I'm not talking about blokes drafted during wartime. They can't get out of it, even if they want to. But your professional soldiers are a bunch of hypocrites. At least a mercenary can choose what side he fights on. But your career soldier rights whoever the politicians tell him to. Look at the Germans in the Nazi war. Were they fighting for their country? Fucking well not. They were fighting for that dingo barstid Hitler and his gang."
Frank was irritated by the other's strong opinions. He said, "Even granting that doesn't excuse a mercenary, fighting for whoever will pay him."
"Half a mo, cobber. I've never taken a contract for some rucking barstid like Hitler or any other politician I thought was buggering up his country. Sometimes I've been offered contracts where I wouldn't fight on either side."
Frank stood and said, "I'll get another, ah, buggering beer."
Nat said, reaching into a pocket, "You ought to let me shout the suds."
"Why?" Frank said. "I'm not a potential recruit. No reason I should be freeloading on you."
At the bar, while Paul Rund was getting the fresh bottles of Stork, the wizened bartender said, "Signing up with the Graf, Frank?"
Frank eyed him. "I don't think so. Do you know of any other jobs kicking around?"
The other popped off the two beer caps, then ran his thin fingers through his bedraggled Vandyke. "You might get a berth on one of the boats. Not as many of them as there used to be, but I heard Sam McQueen needed a couple of men."
"What kind of boats?"
Paul Rund looked at him as though he had hardly expected that question. "Smugglers."
Frank said, "For Christ's sake, I thought you said there was nothing illegal pulled off in Tangier!"
The bartender said patiently, "Smuggling ain't illegal. You buy a cargo of hashish or tobacco here, perfectly legit, and run it to one of the countries where it's taboo, get it? And you sell it there, so you haven't broken any law in Tangier. Smugglers are reputable citizens here, get it?"
The American shook his head and took up the two beers. To his relief, they cost only two dirhams apiece in Paul's. Back at the table, after they had both poured, Nat Eraser said, "So you're not interested?"
"I suppose not. Look, I'm not holier than thou. In fact, I suspect my father was some sort of mercenary; possibly in espionage, I don't know. He and my mother were separated when I was a kid; I didn't see him much. He was usually out of the country, I think. At any rate, he was finally shot on one of his trips. I haven't any desire to end the same way."
The other shurgged broad shoulders. "The Grafs got other operations, like I said. Maybe he could find a place in the organization for a nice presentable cove like yourself."
"From what you've said so far about his operations, I doubt it," Frank said, finishing his beer. He stood. Somewhat to his surprise, he could feel the drink. Possibly, Stork was stronger than the gassy anemic American brew he was used to.
He said, "Thanks anyway, Nat. I'll see you around."
"Too right, cobber. If you change your mind, I'm usually here this time of night."
Frank sent his glance out of one of the dirty windows. It was dark out on the Grand Socco. He hadn't realized they'd been talking for so long.
He left after waving to Paul Rund and stood for a moment before the door. Not a fraction of the teeming Moroccans were still on the streets or in the souk. Evidently, everything folded in the medina with the coming of night. He made his way past shuttered stalls, past steel-barred store fronts, retracing his route as best he could.
He shook his head over the experiences of the past few hours. No crime in Tangier, eh? Uh-huh. Aside from the IABI men ripping off eight hundred of his thousand pseudo-dollars, the customs officer had lifted his camera, his cab driver had stolen his luggage, he had been offered a job as a mercenary despite his lack of experience, and had been told he might land a berth on a boat smuggling narcotics.
He came to a street that might be Rue de la Liberte and headed up it. It was too dark to make out the signs. He thought the street should have had more pedestrian traffic and more lights than this. The blow that struck him on the back of the neck took him completely unawares. He felt his mouth sag open even as he crumbled.
At first, he wasn't completely out but agonizingly paralyzed. He could feel hands hastily going through his pockets, turning them inside out. Two more shadowy figures came hurriedly to his side. He tried to last but could feel no power in his limbs. One of his assailants thoughtfully kicked him in the side of the head and then the fog rolled over him.
Chapter Six: Roy Cos
From Greater Miami they were lobbed over to the island of New Providence by laser boost in approximately ten minutes.
Roy Cos, strapped into his enveloping seat, took a deep breath as acceleration loads mounted and said, "Never been in one of these things before."
"I wish I could say the same," Forry Brown told him, in his usual sour voice. "I hate the damn things."
Roy looked out the small, thick glass porthole at the unbelievable blue sea with its occasional frothed ripples of waves. "That's the Gulf Stream, eh?"
"Yeah," Forry told him. "It keeps the Bahamas at a constant year-round temperature of between seventy and eighty in the shade. George Washington was one of the first tourists here. He called them 'The Isles of Perpetual June.' "
Below, the Wobbly organizer could already see small islands. He said, "How many of them are there?"
They had reached the peak of their arc now, and for a few seconds were in free fall before their shuttle began the deceleration.
The little ex-newsman said, "Most people think of the Bahamas as only the town of Nassau, but actually, there are about 700 islands and nearly 2,000 cays and rocks." His tone took on a cynical singsong parody of a tour guide. "Scattered like a fistful of pearls in turquoise waters extending over an area of 70,000 square miles."
Roy looked over at him. "You've been here before, eh?"
"That's right. Actually, it's one of the most beautiful resort areas in the world. Ah, we're coming in."
The shuttle landed at the Windsor International Airport an
d Forry Brown had a cigarette in his mouth before they started down the gangway, jostling along with their fellow passengers.
Roy Cos hadn't experienced much in the way of nature's charms in his forty-some years. It cost money to seek nature out on the mainland and he'd never had more than GAS. Now, his first impression as they walked in bright sunlight toward customs was one of flower-scented breezes. Even here at the shuttleport, there were gaudy Bahamian flowers—purple and red bougainvillea, yellow and red hibiscus, pink, white, and red oleander, royal purple passionflowers. Their mingling perfumes gave a subtle fragrance to the southeast trade winds. Not that Roy Cos knew their names. Beyond roses, daisies, and tulips he was lost in the world of flowers, as his parents before him. He was a prole born, and proles seldom had gardens.
Customs was the merest of formalities. Forry Brown's attache case and Roy Cos's battered briefcase weren't even opened. However, Roy's credit card, which doubled as his passport, brought up the eyes of the black man in the Bahama immigrations uniform.
He said politely, "Suh, GAS credits are not valid in the islands."
Forry said, "Mr. Cos is my guest." He handed over his own Universal Card.
"Jolly well, suh," the other told him, returning the ex-newsman's credit card and then touching the brim of his cap in an easygoing salute.
They passed on toward the metro station, where everyone seemed to be heading.
Roy looked over at the other from the side of his eyes and said, "I didn't know that immigrations men could tell what type of pseudo-dollar credits were accredited to a Universal Credit Card by just looking at it. And what was that about GAS credits not being valid?''
"You can't spend your GAS outside the limits of the United States of the Americas," Forry told him. "The government wants you to spend it at home. Why subsidize foreign countries by spending unearned credits in them? The Bahamas, along with Cuba, are the only Caribbean islands that don't belong to the United States. The Bahamas won't join because it's more profitable to stand on the sidelines and offer gambling and offbeat banking practices, such as numbered accounts, and multinational commercial deals like