Mamelukes

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Probably not,” Saxon said. “Not even sure I want to. You promised me fifty bucks, and a pint of Scotch.”

  “You’ll get them. Look, you take this post, once you get there, set up shop, get started, you can have all the booze you want, no problem. Chase skirts, too, and nobody will worry a lot about how old they are.”

  “I didn’t chase—”

  “I don’t care,” Lee said. “The point is, here’s another chance, if you want it. Bright kids, some of them. Place that respects teachers. You’ll be the only science teacher around. You can make a difference in their lives.” He looked at something Saxon couldn’t see. “And if you blow it, what the hell, they’re no worse off than they were before.”

  “Thanks for the confidence.”

  “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” Lee looked Saxon in the eye. “You haven’t given me a lot of reason to have confidence.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one. So what do I have to do?”

  “Stay sober for a couple of days,” Lee said. “Then ask me.”

  “Yeah, sure—”

  “Well, I’ll make it easier,” Lee said. “You can stay here.” He took the keys out of his raincoat pocket. “There’s some food in the kitchen. Here’s the fifty bucks I promised. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. If you’re sober, we’ll talk.” He pointed to the kitchen. “The bottle of Scotch is in there.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A BOTTLE OF SCOTCH

  Saxon stared at the bottle. For months, a bottle of Scotch had represented everything he wanted out of life. Or everything he thought he wanted. Or—he looked at it again.

  Why?

  Well, why not? No one wanted a child-molesting drunk. Not that Sherry had been a child. She sure hadn’t looked like one, and the molesting had been a fully cooperative venture. With his pants on. Hers too, although her top was off. He hadn’t let her take off anything else. She wasn’t a student in his school. And she’d said she was nineteen.

  And you believed her, right?

  Saxon reached towards the bottle, then shook his head.

  I don’t know if I believed her or not. I sure wanted to believe her. And damn it all, I was sure she was eighteen at worst. Not fifteen!

  Jailbait. Worse than jailbait. He’d avoided jail. The DA offered him a deal. Plead guilty to a minor sex offense. It sounded good—

  But of course it made him a registered sex offender, and ended any chance he’d have of being a teacher, in California or anywhere else. And the funny part was he could probably have gotten off clean, just not plead guilty to anything, tell them he wanted a jury trial, tough it out. But he hadn’t known.

  I should have gotten a good lawyer. But I didn’t want a good lawyer, because dammit all, I did it, and I was a teacher, whether she was one of my students or not. That’s supposed to mean something, and I damned well shouldn’t have been fooling around with someone her age even if she was nineteen! And a good lawyer wouldn’t have helped with Ann, anyway. She’d have taken Ben and left no matter what. I think she would.

  But there hadn’t been a good lawyer. Sherry didn’t look fifteen, but the DA’s people told him how she’d be dressed for the trial, sweet sixteen, tiny dabs of makeup—what they didn’t tell him was that Sherry had made it clear to the district attorney that when he put her on the stand she wouldn’t look fifteen no matter how they dressed her, and she’d let the jury know she didn’t act fifteen, in court or out, and Bart Saxon was a long way from her first conquest, and wouldn’t her city councilman old man have loved that! He’d never have let it come to a trial!

  But no one had told him until after the preliminary hearing where he pled guilty. His community service was cleaning trash off the Nimitz Freeway. Ann sold the house and moved east with their son, and he wasn’t even sure where she was, and she didn’t have to tell him since he was a registered sex offender. But if he made any money, she could have a lot of it. And Bob, good old Bob, the insurance man down the street, got a divorce and moved back east with Ann, and how long had that been—

  He reached for the bottle. It felt right. He could feel the warmth of the whiskey, warm in his throat, warm in his stomach—he put the bottle back down, still unopened. Time enough for that tomorrow night. Hear what George Lee had to say. Anyone can stay sober for a day. One day. Get through the day.

  * * *

  Lefty O’Doul’s was special, a place where, so long as you had decent manners, they’d treat you with dignity. There was Oscar, once a concert musician, now living on a pension. Oscar always dressed for dinner, in a suit that was far too large for him so he pinned it in the back to make it fit a little better. And Sarah, who must have been eighty years old, a retired teacher. She lived on beans and table scraps but once a week she had just enough money to eat at Lefty’s, generally on Wednesday night, when there were other teachers and a former professor, all down and out, not as far down as Saxon. But down, forgotten by everyone. People who’d been important once. Or if not important, had pulled their freight, contributed. Been good people who worked hard, and now—

  The décor was old-style saloon with a cafeteria-style serving line. Nothing special, but nothing fancy, a place to feel at home in. And they were polite to street people.

  Wednesday was when Saxon tried to get there, if he’d saved enough and had found a place he could take a bath. He liked the company. They didn’t know who he was, but they knew he’d been educated. And they wondered why he was wasting his life and education, but they never asked. Not really.

  Today was Thursday, though, and no one Saxon knew was there. He told himself that it didn’t really matter, and maybe it didn’t, but it would have been nice to have someone to talk to. He went through the cafeteria line and took corned beef and cabbage and boiled potatoes, and a dessert. He thought about beer. One beer wouldn’t do any harm. Beer was good. He wouldn’t get drunk on one beer. But his decision to be sober the next day had become a determination to prove to himself that he could do it, so he had a Coke instead. The realization that he had a place to sleep, with a bathroom—there had been towels and soap and a razor and a new toothbrush—made him order coffee. He’d have no trouble sleeping, and what if he did? There was a warm, safe room, and a book—the Virginia Woolf biography looked interesting—and a small television if he wanted to watch that.

  He had thought he was used to life on the streets. Beg until he had enough money to buy liquor. Drink until he didn’t have to think any more. Find a place to sleep, a doorway, or maybe a mission, if he was really hungry or needed a bath. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to regret, no bills to pay. Life on the streets blended one day with the next.

  Except Wednesdays, when he’d try to clean up and meet his—not exactly friends, or were they? His fellow denizens of Lefty’s on a Wednesday night. Used-up intellectuals. What he might have been if he’d had a couple fewer drinks that night, and spent the next fifty years teaching. Or if he hadn’t got home early three days before that night, when he drove up just in time to see Ann rush out of Bob’s house, with good old Bob half-dressed in the doorway, and Ann running to get home—

  She hadn’t seen him. He wasn’t even sure of what he’d seen, but suddenly some other things he’d seen but hadn’t paid attention to had begun to make sense. Not enough sense to make accusations, nothing to be sure of—but that was reason enough to have a couple of extra drinks there at the party, and—

  When he was honest with himself, he knew there’d always been a reason to have a couple of extra drinks. Work too hard. Too many students. Too many papers to grade. Always something. Not that he drank all that much. Not enough that he was drunk. Just a little too much, too often—

  This wasn’t getting anywhere. Maybe trying to be sober wasn’t such a good idea.

  He pocketed his leftover roll and butter packet out of habit, then another roll and a slice of bread someone had abandoned at the next table as he left. Outside it was still blustery. The rain had stopped, but there was a cold chill wind. I
t would be warm in the apartment. He hadn’t noticed where the heat came from. Radiator, probably. Maybe electric. But it was warm. The memory made him walk faster.

  Just past the Glide Memorial Church he heard footsteps behind him. He scurried on, walking faster, and realized that was a mistake. He was walking like someone who had something to lose. A big mistake. The way to get along was to shuffle, have nothing and be nothing.

  There was someone behind him. A few steps to the door. The sex shops on either side of the door were open, maybe—

  “Hey, man, got any money?”

  Saxon didn’t recognize the voice. He tried to ignore the man.

  “Hey, bastard, I’m talking to you. You got any money? Gimme some money.”

  “Shit, I don’t got money,” Saxon said.

  “Well, maybe you got some blood then?”

  Saxon turned then. The man wasn’t as big as Saxon. He was dressed in a long overcoat, some kind of ragged wool that might have been military surplus. He wore a dirty knit cap. One hand was held low and to his side. Saxon didn’t see a knife, but in the dim light he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t one.

  “I told you, I don’t got any money,” Saxon whined. Better to whine than get in a fight whether the man had a knife or not, but he felt ashamed.

  “Sure you got money. I seen you before. You street shit like me. Now you come out of that place there.” He pointed to the door between the sex shops. “Then I see you come out of Lefty’s. Don’t know who you are, but you got money. You stole it, you must’ve stole it. You ain’t no better’n me, share up.”

  Saxon remembered the man. He’d been at the Glide a couple of times in the soup lines.

  “I mean it, I don’t want to have to hurt you, now. Don’t make me do that, just gimme some of that money you got.”

  “I won’t give you shit,” Saxon said. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Wrong answer, man—”

  “Let be, Dickhead,” someone said. “Chill it out, fat boy.”

  The newcomer was a big Black man named Cal. Cal Haskins, Saxon remembered. He didn’t know him well, but a couple of times they’d shared the same doorway, and Haskins hadn’t tried to rob him. Once Haskins had shared a cup of coffee. He was about as close to being a friend as anyone was on the streets.

  Haskins used a one-handed flip to open a butterfly knife. He didn’t hold it menacingly. He just held it, as if it had magically appeared in his hand.

  “Cal, you leave me alone now,” the man whined. “You got no cause to cut me.”

  “Sure, I leave you alone, you just get out of here before I stuff your sorry head up your ass,” Haskins said.

  “I coming back with my homeys, we fix you good.”

  “You just do that. That’s right, just turn around and get the hell gone—” As the man turned away, Haskins kicked his ass. Not hard, more in contempt than to hurt him. And laughed. “Well,” Haskins said. He laughed again and folded up the butterfly knife. “Saxon, you all right?”

  “Sure. I could have handled it—”

  “Sure you could.” Haskins turned away.

  “Or maybe I couldn’t,” Saxon said. “Hey, thanks. Hey, Cal, I’m sorry. Thanks, really. Want a cup of coffee?”

  Haskins stopped.

  “You buying?”

  “Better’n that. I’ll make some.” Saxon fished out the keys Lee had left. “Up here. Come up and get warm.”

  “Warm? Coffee? Maybe that dickhead was right! You robbed a bank or something?” But he was laughing.

  “Come on up and I’ll tell you about it,” Saxon said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NATION BUILDING

  Haskins looked around the room and whistled. “Man, you got a pension or something?”

  “No, this is a perk that comes with a job offer. Have a seat, I’ll make some coffee. There’s not a lot to eat—” Saxon fished one of the rolls from Lefty’s out of his pocket. “But this is clean.”

  “Good enough. Thanks. What kind of job?”

  Saxon filled the kettle and put it on the stove. As he spooned out Taster’s Choice into cups he heard Haskins behind him.

  “Scotch! Never mind the coffee.”

  “I’m not opening it,” Saxon said, and Haskins frowned.

  “That’s kind of mean. I saved your ass.”

  “Yeah, and I’m grateful, but I’m not opening it.”

  “Hmm. Okay, it’s your Scotch, you don’t want to share, that’s your business.”

  “Not that at all. I’m not opening it because if I do I’ll drink it, and then I won’t get the job.” Saxon came to a sudden decision. “Tell you what, you can have it when you leave. The whole bottle. But take it with you. Once it’s open, I’ll drink it sure as hell.”

  Haskins went back to the other room and sat at the table.

  “Now that’s right generous,” he said. After a moment he stood and took his overcoat off. His old sweater underneath the coat was patched, and had dirt spots, but it wasn’t filthy. “Nice and warm in here,” Haskins said. “I axed you before, what kind of job? Must be something, you going to give away a whole bottle of Scotch.”

  “Teaching,” Saxon said. “Some foreign country. Primitive place.”

  “Well, well,” Haskins said. “I used to do that.”

  Saxon poured boiling water into the cups and brought them into the other room. He set a cup in front of Haskins and sat down.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Haskins asked. There was amusement in his voice.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. Hell, I wouldn’t believe it myself. But I did.”

  “What subjects did you teach?” Saxon asked.

  “Not quite like that,” Haskins said. “I was a corporal, part of what the Army called a nation-building team. We taught things like village sanitation, personal hygiene, where to put the crapper.” He looked away. “I should have stayed with it.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Thought I didn’t like the Army,” Haskins said as he returned his gaze Saxon. “Thought it was better outside. Maybe it would have been, but I got strung out.”

  “You have a habit?”

  “Not anymore. Used to, big time.”

  “How’d you kick it?”

  “Glide sent me to rehab. The drug part took.” Haskins’ eyes fixed on the bottle of Scotch still unopened on the kitchen counter. “What you going to teach?”

  “Science, I guess,” Saxon said. “It’s what I taught in high school before I—well, before. They tell me the place is really primitive, though, so I expect I’ll have to teach a lot of basics first.”

  “Primitive. Africa?”

  “Cal, they haven’t told me yet.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “Not a lot.” Saxon explained what he knew.

  “CIA,” Haskins said, when he finished.

  “Huh?”

  “Has to be, man. Think about it. They know who you are, all about you. They going to hire you, give you money to buy equipment, ship you out in three weeks? Has to be CIA. State Department, anything else, they’d be two years in red tape hiring somebody, another year in buying equipment. Military wouldn’t be recruiting people off the streets to begin with. Has to be the Company.” Haskins drained his cup. “We worked with them CIA boys in Zaire. Bet that’s where this is, Central Africa somewhere. Lots of primitive places there. Has to be Africa.”

  “Well, it could be.”

  “Wonder if they need anybody else,” Haskins mused.

  “Hey—lay off. You’ll queer it for me.”

  “How? They tell you to keep this a secret?”

  “No—”

  “Then they don’t give a shit,” Haskins said. “The Company likes things secret, but if they’re really worried about it they’ll tell you big time, probably watch you too.”

  “So what are you planning on doing?” Saxon asked.

  “Same as you, man. Wait here, leave that bottle si
tting there on the counter, and talk to the man when he shows up.” Haskins voice dropped. “Prob’ly nothing comes of it, but can’t do no harm to ask him about it.”

  “Ask about what?”

  “Goin’ with you, man. They need you to teach science, you going to need somebody to teach scut work, else you going to spend all your time teaching about digging wells upstream from the crapper! Man, I been there, I know! Saxon you don’t know nothing about how bad it gets, some of those back-ass places, but I do. I’ve been there. You let me talk to that Dr. Lee.”

  “Why do you want to do that?” Saxon asked, and Haskins shook his head.

  “Saxon, that was the best time of my life! I was doing something. Not shooting people, not shooting up, doing something. Little kids following me around like I was a hero. I was tired as hell, all the time wore out, but I haven’t felt that good since. Come on, man, you got to give me a chance!”

  “Chance, sure, but—” The one thing you didn’t do on the streets was ask why someone was there. They might tell you—many were eager to tell you, or at least tell you a story—but you didn’t ask. Better to pick a man’s pocket than try to get into his head without invitation. Saxon wondered if he’d made up that phrase or one of the counselors at Glide had said it. But this time was different!

  “You never had any other chances?”

  Haskins looked at him hard.

  “Oh, yeah, man, I had lots of chances. Blew every damn one of them. For a while I told myself the VA was going to put things right for me. Even got me a lawyer, he’s still working on it. Then the Glide. And Social Welfare. Always somebody owed me, always looking to collect what I was owed. Nothing worked.”

  “Never got a break,” Saxon said, and Haskins’ face tightened.

  “Yeah, that’s what I told myself, but hell, Bart, I got breaks. Breaks don’t do junkies no good. Glide did that much for me, I got rid of the goddam habit. And I knew I’d get a break once I kicked the habit. Well, this looks like it.”