Relative Danger

by Charles Benoit

  “Well, first with moves like…THIS.” Abe slammed on the brakes, sledding the car along the thin layer of sand like it was ice, pulled the wheel hard to his left, whipping the back of the car around, dropped it into first and shot off the paved road and onto a gravel track that ran into the desert. The car bottomed out hard and the sound of rocks hitting the axels made Doug cringe. Behind them, two headlights bounced down the short embankment and onto the gravel road.

  “I knew it, I fuckin’ knew it,” Abe shouted as he leaned forward in his seat, trying to make out a road. The floorboard shook with the impact of desert rocks kicked up by the tires and the headlights behind them seemed dimmer through the dust. Dimmer but larger.

  “I think they’re getting closer. Go faster,” Doug shouted over the noise of the road.

  “Oh brilliant,” Abe said, taking his eyes off the road long enough to roll them at Doug. “I didn’t think of that.” He pushed the pedal harder against the floor, trying to force more out of the redlined engine.

  The interior of the car grew brighter as the two headlights drew closer. Doug braced himself with one arm on the roof and the other on the dashboard. He twisted his neck to watch the headlights disappear behind the trunk of their car and he prepared for the impact. It was a slight nudge but enough to force Abe to wrestle the car back under control.

  The headlights pulled back to ready for another hit.

  “Get ready,” Doug shouted.

  “You get ready,” Abe yelled, “they’re trying to flip us.”

  The headlights came at them again, this time faster, and the hit sent Doug hard into the windshield. He looked over at Abe, who somehow kept the car straight, and saw the blood from his busted lip. Doug held on, trying to turn to see out the back window. There was less light—one of the headlights busted on the last hit—but it stayed with them, just peeking over the top of the trunk. The tires sent up a steady stream of stones and unseen holes in the road threatened to rip off a wheel.

  “If I remember right,” Abe said as he stared ahead, “there’s going to be an intersection up here. If they try to hit us there I’m going to try something.”

  The lone headlight kept pace but didn’t try to ram again.

  “Get the gun,” Abe said, “and be ready.”

  “What gun?” Doug yelled and thought oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  “There, there,” Abe said, pointing to the glove box.

  Doug pulled out a handgun, an automatic, he had no idea what kind, and felt for the safety. He turned to look out the rear window and shifted in his seat.

  “What are you doing?” Abe yelled. “Don’t shoot out my back window. Are you crazy?”

  “Hey,” Doug said, “they’re the ones trying to kill us. And you told me to get the gun.”

  “I don’t care. Don’t shoot through my windows.”

  Doug twisted back around and started to open the passenger window. I’m not really going to do this, am I, he thought, but before he could decide, a slight nudge from behind forced him to hold on again.

  Abe took his right hand off the wheel long enough to smack Doug on the leg. “Forget that. Here’s the spot. Hold on.”

  Doug tossed the gun on the floor and braced himself.

  As if on cue, the headlight backed off a few yards and lunged forward. Abe yanked the wheel one way, then back, pumping the brakes each time they were hit. Above the noise of crumpling metal and flying rocks, Doug knew he heard gunshots and tried to reach for the automatic on the floor but was thrown back in his seat by a hard hit from behind. There was one more hard hit, and the interior of the car filled with light again as the single headlight shot up over the trunk and arched away into the desert. Doug couldn’t make out the car but watched as the light bounced off the road and disappeared behind a sand dune, briefly backlit by a bright yellow flash. The sound of the explosion was just audible above the gravel and the engine’s roar.

  “Holy shit,” Abe yelled, “did you see that?”

  “What’d you do? How’d you do that?”

  “I was just trying to force them off the road,” Abe said, and started to laugh but stopped himself. “Holy shit,” he added and slowed the car down, but not by much. The gravel still made it hard to hear.

  “I couldn’t make out what happened. I couldn’t really see anything,” Doug said, and then said, “Should we go back?”

  “Hell no, what are you crazy? They’d kill us.”

  “If they aren’t already dead,” Doug said.

  Abe was licking his lip, trying to determine how bad the cut was. The air conditioning was gone and they were sweating.

  “No. They ain’t dead,” Abe said.

  “What? Did you see the explosion?”

  “They were just busted up. They’re fine.”

  Doug wiped his eyes, the sweat was starting to run down his face. “Abe, how can you say they are fine? I mean, with a crash like that….”

  Abe turned in his seat and pointed a finger at Doug. “Look,” Abe said and then paused. He turned back around to stare down the road. Doug didn’t say anything. Ten minutes later they merged onto the main road and he said, “How much farther?”

  “They’re not dead, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” Doug said. “How much farther?”

  “About two hours. See I told you I knew a shortcut.”

  “Famous last words,” Doug said and then wished he hadn’t. “Roll down your window, it’s like an oven in here.”

  The desert night air was cold and Doug had to roll the window back up part way. Abe left his window open.

  “Is it worth it?” Abe said. They had been driving in silence for over an hour.

  “Is what worth it?”

  “This little adventure of yours, this mystery diamond, this whole uncle thing? Is it worth it?”

  “Seriously?” Doug said. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what the hell is going on.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms over his head. “I mean, when it first started I was like, yeah, this is going to be great. I remember thinking, when I was in Casablanca, that I was some, I don’t know, what’s the word?” and he looked around the car as if he had the right word but had dropped it somewhere. “Adventurer? Detective? Indiana Jones? I’ve never done anything with my life and here I was doing something. But now….”

  “So why are you still doing it? Quit. Go home. Screw the diamond.” Traffic started to pick up and there were more road signs now as they approached Sharm el-Shiek.

  “Well,” Doug said, “it’s not just the diamond, it’s Edna, that woman I told you about, and all that crap about my uncle….”

  “Fuck ’em. If you don’t want to be doing this shit, go home.”

  Doug ran both hands up his face and through his hair, grabbing a handful and tugging. “That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I thought this Edna woman….”

  “Not her,” Doug said, “me. That’s the story of my life. I could go home, get a job—I know enough people in Pottsville where I could get a job—that’s not a problem. A week, two weeks…it would be like I never left.”

  “So there you go. Problem solved.”

  Doug laughed and it startled Abe. “That is the problem. I’m the problem. My dull, stupid life’s the problem.” He laughed again and slapped his thighs hard.

  “You’re getting weird on me Doug. I asked one simple question….”

  “Okay, a quick simple answer: No, it’s not worth it.”

  “But?”

  “But I am.”

  Abe turned to speak but changed his mind, looked back out to the growing traffic and shook his head. They drove on in silence until Abe began a running commentary on the traffic and the questionable parentage of the other drivers, all delivered in cartoon character voices. Hearing Daffy Duck shout obscenities was believable, but Doug couldn’t buy it when it came from Mickey Mouse.

  Nobody, in any voice, mentioned the desert.

  ***

  Abe swung th
e car into an empty spot, the airport parking lot already filling up for the start of the night flights. Half the vehicles were hotel shuttle buses, the other half taxis waiting to pick up the backpack crowd. Abe managed to get the trunk open and neither mentioned the busted taillight, missing chrome trim, or the slightly skewed bumper. Doug grabbed his bag from the trunk—who knew what Aisha packed this time—and stepped away as Abe wedged the trunk shut.

  The airport was much smaller than the one in Cairo and the crowds of passengers and well-wishers were subdued and even polite, as if, unable to compete with the capital city’s airport in size, they gave up on the frenzied behavior as well. They walked through the metal detector at the door, the red light flashing and the buzzer sounding, as it did for everyone who passed through. The guard, picking up his tea from the security desk across the room, didn’t even glance up. Abe’s uncle was waiting for them by the departure board. Doug was introduced and then left out of the Arabic conversation that concluded with the passing of envelopes and kissing of cheeks.

  “Here’s the deal, Doug,” Abe said as they left the Gulf Air counter. “You’re flying out in twenty minutes to Bahrain, from there you’ll transfer to a Singapore Airlines flight that will get you into Singapore about four tomorrow afternoon, their time.”

  “Singapore? What the hell are you doing? I thought you were sending me back to the States?”

  “Yeah well, now you’re going to Singapore. Here’s your ticket, it’s all set.”

  “I can’t pay you for this,” Doug said, just realizing that he only had a couple hundred dollars’ worth of Egyptian money on him anyway. “Can you cash a traveler’s check?”

  “It’s all taken care of,” Abe said, and before Doug could ask he added, “Aisha.” He handed Doug a second envelope. “And she sent this for you.”

  “I can’t leave just yet,” the note started, “I gotta straighten some things out on this end. I’m going to try to meet you in Singapore in about a week. I always stay at Raffles, so you can reach me there. Watch yourself, okay?” After the loopy signature that filled half the page she added, “So far I’ve had a great time,” along with a smile face. She didn’t strike him as the smile face type, but then he didn’t think she was having such a great time, either.

  “Come on, boss,” Abe said in a heavy jowled, southern accent, “youze gotta get outta here.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Nazis done got a price on your head and they’ll be here any minute.”

  “What are you talking about? And why are you talking like that?”

  “Dooley Wilson? Casablanca? The train station scene?” Abe paused, hoping Doug would make the connection. “Oh forget it. My best material is wasted on you. They’re calling your flight. Don’t lose your passport. And when you get to Bahrain there’ll be a guy there who will pick up the cocaine I put in your checked bag.”

  “What?” Doug tried to yell but nothing came out.

  “Joking, Doug, only joking. You’d better get going.”

  “Abe, you’re still an ass,” he said as he reached for Abe’s outstretched hand. And when Abe kissed him on his cheeks, Doug tensed up but didn’t pull away.

  “Maybe I’ll see you in Pottsville sometime,” Abe said as Doug walked to the customs check.

  Doug smiled and shook his head. “And the next time I’m in a jail somewhere, I’ll look around for you,” he said and passed through the security door.

  Chapter 23

  Singapore Airlines flight 340 from Bahrain banked sharply to the right as it began its long approach. The morning sun, still low on the horizon, beamed through the windows, sending twenty squares of light racing above the seats on the far side of the cabin. Doug kept his eyes clamped shut and tried to picture himself sitting in a nice, quiet room, a room that wasn’t spiraling down from thirty-five thousand feet.

  He wasn’t hung over, not yet anyway. He was still somewhat drunk which was impressive considering the last thing he had to drink was a gin and tonic an hour out of Bahrain. But he had four full days of alcohol to process before he could begin sobering up.

  If he had only stayed on the plane, he told himself for the hundredth time, everything would have been just fine. But no, a four-hour delay in Bahrain—and he still had no real idea where Bahrain was—gave him the opportunity to stretch his legs in the airport, catch a complimentary meal and maybe a beer or two. That was, what, five days ago? He should have just stayed on the plane.

  But that wasn’t an option. The Gulf Air flight from Sharm el-Shiek terminated at Bahrain and he was supposed to transfer to a Singapore Air flight which was delayed due to a sandstorm in Riyadh which, given the sandstorm part, Doug assumed was somewhere in the desert. The late-night four-hour layover stretched into a six-hour early-morning delay before the nice Indian woman at the counter announced in Arabic, Chinese, Hindi, and finally English that on behalf of Gulf Air and Singapore Air she was truly sorry for the delay, that their bags would be transferred to the new flight, and would they all mind getting on the shuttle bus that would take them into town so they could rest before their flight resumed around nine p.m.

  The processing through customs was so quick Doug didn’t even have time to panic and the ride to the hotel was over before he realized he was in another country. He was heading to his second-floor room when a hand shot in between the closing elevator doors, tripping the safety and springing them back open.

  “An emergency,” a big man said in a British accent so thick that Doug had to strain to decipher. “Need your help.” Days later, as the Singapore Airlines flight attendant informed the passengers that they should return their tray tables to the upright and locked position, Doug replayed the elevator scene in his mind. If I had only taken the stairs, he thought.

  “Sure,” Doug said. “What’s up?”

  “Big problems. Cheeky bastard. Need one more to make it a go.” The man held the door open as it tried to close again and gave it an extra shove as if to teach it a lesson. “Come on, then,” he said and led Doug down the corridor.

  The man was big, but not in a tall, all around big way, more like a small car, one of those boxy European imports, thick and low to the ground. He was a few inches shorter than Doug but his deep chest and thigh-like forearms and the way his neck tapered down from his ears out to his shoulders made him look bigger. A fistful of fat cigars stuck out of the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. They reached a frosted glass door at the end of the hall. “Right, in ya go.”

  The windowless room was dark, made darker by the mahogany-stained wood that covered everything that wasn’t already covered in shiny brass. Fake antiques, of course, hung on the walls, mostly from the European Sports/English Pub collection. The neon Guinness sign reflected off the neat rows of wine glasses, suspended upside down above the bar, and gave the group of men clustered by the taps a cherubic glow. They glanced over at Doug and most smiled. “About time, ya fuckin’ twat.”

  “Piss off, Rebecca. Here,” the big man said—and they were all big men, cut from the same squat, bulldog cloth—as he propelled Doug towards the bar. “Here’s the tenth. Start pouring.”

  “I thought there was an emergency,” Doug said as the big man sat him down at the bar.

  “Is. Low-caste Paki twit. Won’t serve. Needed ten at the bar.”

  “Gentlemen, I am sorry but the rules are most clear,” the bartender said in his practiced subservient-but-still-firm voice. “I know it is not a popular rule but….”

  “Piss off. Keep pouring,” the big man said and reached across the bar for a bottle of Wild Turkey, which he handed to Doug. “We’ll need this.”

  “Look, guys, I appreciate this, but I just got in and I haven’t had anything to eat so I’m going to have to say no….”

  Nine sets of eyes locked onto Doug and the only sound was a nervous whistle coming from the bartender, who stared at the suspended wine glasses.

  “Nice job, Rachael. You grab the only wanker in the lobby.”

  “Steady, Sall
y,” the big man said as he put his heavy hand on Doug’s shoulder. “Doesn’t know what he’s saying. Meant to say he needs some food. Anne, a menu.”

  Anne, the Neanderthal with the full beard and shaved head, leaned past the whistling bartender and grabbed a menu from the back counter. “Order us up some crisps while you’re at it, Rachael.”

  “Here mate,” the big man said as he handed Doug the menu, “order what you will. Under five dinars.” Doug started to say no but the grumblings of both the big men and his stomach made him change his mind. “Right, Ladies. It’s half seven. Left hand drinking only. Gladys has the golf ball….” Gladys raised his thick arm and waved the golf ball between his fingers. “…Watch your drinks. Ante up. Cheers.” He turned to Doug and said, “Chug, mate. Don’t be last. Buy the next round if you are.” He looked back down the bar. “Sorry. Too late. It’s beers around, mate.”

  Twenty minutes, two beers and an Arabic version of a Spanish omelet later, Doug was in the mood to talk. “Is your name really Rachael?” he asked the big guy.

  “For the weekend. Reminds me. You need a name. Fancy Crystal?”

  “Can’t,” said a red-haired troll who was trying to fish a golf ball out of his beer, “there’s a Crystal on the Dubai team.”

  “Can be two Crystals,” Rachael said. “Got five Bettys, Betty. Not the same team. No law.”

  “Still,” said Betty, “he’s rather protective of the name. Remember what happened to the guy from Qatar?”

  “Oh yeah. Right. Okay. Not Crystal.”

  “He looks like a Terri to me,” said a voice from the far end of the bar.

  “No. He’s a Cindy,” said another, followed by a wine glass-shaking burp.

  The big guy poked Doug in the chest with a hot dog sized finger. “Call you what? Terri or Cindy?”

  “How about Doug?” Doug asked.

  “Doug?”

  “Not likely, mate.”

  “Told you. Fucking wanker.”

  “Easy, easy,” Rachel said, “not from the Gulf.”