by James Munro
"You like playing cowboys?" Craig asked.
"Adore it," answered Medani. "It gives me an idea of what it must have been like at home. I was only ten when we were liberated"—he pronounced the word in French, and it pulled his face into a sneer. "But this isn't all that far from it, you know."
Horses and guns, Craig thought. That's all an Arab from the Rif or the Atlas can think of. When they get enough to make them happy they start a war, and then they're ecstatic. He remembered seeing a band of El Glaoui's men in Rabat, just before the final crash of independence: Turbanned, white-robed, magnificently mounted, they'd spun and swirled their horses as Medani had done, playing cowboys. In their hands they'd carried incredible muzzle-loading muskets five feet long, inlaid with brass, with silver, even with gold. But these were playthings, used only for ceremonials and showing off. When it came to business they had repeating carbines.
"I wish the old days were back," said Medani, and Craig believed him.
They went out to eat then, to the inevitable barbecue, and Simmons was masterfully efficient among the steaks and chops, but it was other, lesser cowboys who served the potato chips, the salad, and the chateau-bottled claret. One could strain after authenticity for just so long, Craig gathered.
There were limits. Then two more cowboys appeared, and their faces were pale and they had trouble with their Stetsons. One of them held a guitar, the other a fiddle, and the fire blazed up in a shower of sparks behind them. They played hoedown music very well indeed, and the real cowboys took it in turns to dance with Jane, who was now the purty schoolmarm in blue-checked gingham. Simmons danced with her best of all, and grinned when the others applauded. Craig thought it best not to compete, and so did Medani.
"I was educated in Paris," he said, "but I cannot get used to this. It is bad for a man to dance with a woman. Much better to make the woman dance for him."
He began to speak then of the belly dancers of Marrakesh, and this took time. Craig listened with the respect that is every expert's due as Medani talked on, in Arabic, and Craig realized that sex also can make you homesick.
Simmons heard the swift, guttural sounds and came across to them, Jane beside him, flushed and adoring for her wonderful daddy. Medani had remembered an Egyptian he had once seen who seemed able to revolve in three directions at once. Craig hoped Jane didn't speak Arabic.
Simmons said: "So you speak Arabic, too?" He didn't seem very surprised.
"That's how I got into the F.O.," said Craig. "I took a course in the navy." Well not a course, exactly, he thought. Her name had been Kamar; she had danced like Medani's Egyptian.
"I hope we weren't being rude," Medani said.
"It was a pleasure to me to speak my own language."
"Not at all," said Simmons. "What were you talking about?"
Medani stiffened, then his glance went from Simmons to Jane like two cuts of a sword.
"We spoke of women," he said, "and the way they ought to dance."
Even by firelight Craig could see Simmons fighting to control his temper. When he finally succeeded he was sweating with the effort of it. At last he said: "How amusing for you."
Craig thought Simmons must need Medani very much; otherwise he would have killed him.
The fire burned low, and Simmons turned to whisper to his daughter. The young men stiffened in excitement as Jane smiled good night, then came across to Craig.
"Daddy says it's bedtime, Mr. Craig," she said. "So it's bedtime."
She held out her hand. It was a strong little hand, very sure of itself, but it trembled in his before she turned away and the skirts of her dress whispered over the grass.
Simmons watched her go, then winked at the others.
"Well, boys," he said, "let's take a look at the town."
10
They should have saddled up, Craig thought, and ridden for miles over rolling grassland, whooping like maniacs. Instead they walked—the saloon was only a hundred yards away—but at least they did it properly; in line, thumbs hooked in their gun belts, before pushing the bat-wing doors aside.
The saloon glowed with the soft, warm light of oil lamps, and the perfesser was still playing the same solid blues. Almost at once two of the young men were playing cards with the gambler, and the rest of them were drinking steadily, except for Simmons. He seemed content to watch the others drink, and walked round with the bottle, topping up glasses. Medani still drank sarsaparilla, but Craig let Simmons serve him once, then resisted. Getting drunk was no part of his plans.
"Ah, come on, Craig," said Simmons. "I'm Ganymede."
"I thought it was Galahad," said Craig.
"Ganymede was cupbearer to the gods," said Simmons. "Don't you F.O. types know anything?"
"I know he was queer," said Craig, and Medani giggled.
Simmons said: "You're right. I'd better stick to Galahad."
"Righter of wrongs," said Craig, "defender of distressed maidens, bulwark of civilization."
"Exactly," said Simmons. He wasn't laughing. "That's what being in the newspaper business is for. Righting wrongs. Defending civilization." He smiled. "That and the money."
"You didn't mention defending distressed maidens," said Charlie.
"How could I?" Simmons asked. "I've distressed a few myself. That reminds me—"
He nodded to the barman, who pressed a buzzer behind the bar. "What good is a saloon without dancing girls?" Simmons asked.
The perfesser moved in three clean chords from "I Thought I Heard Buddy Boldon Shout" to Offenbach, the curtains parted, and Craig was back in Nuderama, with Karen, Tempest, Maxine, eight supporting lovelies and all. But this time they were doing a can-can, and doing it well. Simmons must have been paying them a lot of money, he thought, but at least he got value for it. He glanced quickly at Simmons, as Karen crashed down in a split. On his face was the look of a man who was getting value for money.
After the can-can the show reverted to Nuderama all over again, but there were two differences. The apathy of the Soho show had gone completely. These were women to whom undressing was a prelude to making love, and an invitation aimed straight for the men at the bar. Look at me, each rich, swaying body said. I'm desirable. Admit you want me. And perhaps—who knows—I can be had. The creamy rose-tipped flesh yearned out toward the male with a frankness that could mean only one thing, and the men at the bar knew it. They knew, too, that they were still out West in the old days, because the clothes the girls removed were Edwardian. Craig had never realized before the erotic quality of corsets, frilly panties that reached to the knees, picture hats two feet across. But Simmons—or his choreographer—had. There was a scene in which Tempest, in a yellow muslin gown with a bustle, a straw hat, and parasol, sang "You Are My Honeysuckle," and she and the per-fesser between them extricated all the sugared innocence the song contained. As she sang in a small, true, little-girl voice, Karen and Maxine appeared, dressed as French maids, all white starched caps and frilly skirts, and slowly stripped Tempest naked. As the smooth-rounded body appeared her innocence became an ecstasy of shame and as she struggled piteously against the encroaching hands that showed her to the eyes of men her voice still whispered the suggestive lyrics to the avid silence.
"You can't beat the old songs, eh Craig?" asked Simmons.
"Not the way they sing them," said Craig. "Ah—dear girls aren't they?" Simmons said. "Dear?"
Simmons laughed. "I like you," he said. "You've got a way of getting straight to the point without being obvious. No—when I said dear, I meant lovable."
"I see," said Craig. "Do you do this kind of thing often?"
"Not often, no," said Simmons. "This type of show's a hobby of mine, you see. I like to arrange one now and again, just to see how it works with my young men. It looks as if they're enjoying it."
It did indeed, Craig thought. Eleven girls offered, like bones to dogs, to half a dozen rich youngsters, one of whom was about to become engaged to his daughter. A man's hobbies couldn't be much more variou
s than that.
"Women are usually stupid and invariably expensive," said Simmons, "but they're worth it, don't you think? Their effect on men is so amusing. Just look."
He nodded at Charlie, who was staring at Maxine. What Maxine was doing reminded Craig of Tangier all over again.
"It reminds me of my lost youth," said Simmons.
"I thought you spent that in the Balkans."
"Oh, I did," Simmons said. "Killing people for a good cause. That's always been an interest of mine. Just as well my mother had me christened Galahad."
Then the curtain came down and he went off with his bottle, pouring drinks. Craig set himself to memorize the names of the men to whom he'd been introduced. It would be as well to find out who they were, what they did. It might even explain why Simmons found it necessary to debauch them. And it would upset Loomis. Loomis was a prude.
The girls made their entrance into the saloon then, and Craig stayed well away from Hornsey. Each girl wore a tight-fitting low-cut gown, black stockings, and high-heeled shoes. They hadn't had time to wear much else. Simmons was busy again, with champagne this time, building an elaborate fountain of goblets, then pouring the wine so that it frothed down, spilling over from one glass to the next, while the girls giggled and the men cheered, and sweated for what they saw as Simmons took the three stars of the show and introduced them to one man after another. They came to Craig at last, and their eyes were bright with the knowledge of what they had done to men so much richer and more powerful than they could ever be.
"Hello," said Tempest.
"Do you know Mr. Craig?" Simmons asked.
"No," said Craig. "I'm sure I'd have remembered seeing you ladies before."
"Didn't you ever visit our club then?" Maxine
"No," Craig said. "I wish I had. Where is it?"
"Nuderama's closed down for a bit," said Karen. "We're on holiday. Pity you never saw us."
"Indeed it is," said Craig. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Charlie coming over, with Arthur Hornsey. Charlie was drunk.
"Well, anyway, you've seen us now, all of us," said Tempest, and took his arm.
"Pity you had to be so far away," said Craig, and Karen giggled. Maxine said he was naughty, and Tempest squeezed his arm muscle. Charlie stood in front of them, his hand on Hornsey's shoulder.
"That one's mine," he said to Craig. Simmons said: "Now, Charlie. Don't start anything." He didn't mean it.
Charlie said again: "That's the one I want." Craig felt the girl's hand tremble on his arm, but she continued to smile, to hold back her shoulders so that Charlie could see the teasing promise of her breasts.
"I want you," Charlie said.
"You're pretty drunk, Charlie," said Craig.
Charlie let go of Hornsey, and lurched toward him. His coordination was still good.
"I liked you when I was sober, didn't I?" he said, and Craig nodded. "It doesn't make any difference. Ask anybody. They'll tell you. Ask Chris here—" He gestured at Simmons.
"Ask him what?" said Craig.
"What I'm like when I'm drunk."
"He's nasty," said Simmons. "Very nasty. And very strong."
"That's right," Charlie said. "There's plenty of other girls, Craig. Take one."
"The trouble is I like this one, too." He looked at Tempest. "You're not twins, are you, love?"
She was doing her best, but fear crept slyly over her face and she couldn't control it. She was pretty, with a promise of sexual expertise that couldn't fail to excite, but he didn't want to fight for her. She'd known what she was doing when she took Simmons's money, after all. On the other hand, Charlie seemed fairly determined that Craig would have to fight for her, and Simmons was making no move to stop him. Nor was Hornsey. He just stood and waited, like a man waiting for yet another treat in a night full of treats. He'd even turned to pick up his glass when Charlie struck the first blow.
It was a hard, looping right aimed at Craig's jaw. Craig swayed from it, and pushed Tempest from him. She tripped over Maxine and fell, her gown floating back to reveal the round whiteness of her thigh above her stocking. None of the men even looked; they were absorbed in the fight as Charlie leaped in again, feinted with a right, and landed a left to Craig's middle. Craig gasped, and moved back. Someone had taught this boy how to hit. Charlie threw another left, and Craig grabbed the fist, pulled, and swerved into a carefully controlled throw. After all, he didn't want to hurt Charlie. He was drunk. But drunk or not Charlie landed with a beautifully timed break fall, rolled over once, and got to his feet, circling around Craig, then leaped high into the air, legs curled up, parallel with the ground, until one leg straightened viciously, slamming at where Craig's face should have been in a karate kick, and Craig, ducking, felt the impact of a boot heel on his shoulder that sent him slithering back into a couple of the eight supporting lovelies, while pain trickled like acid into his upper arm.
Charlie landed neatly and aimed another blow at Craig, again a karate strike, a punch this time, the arm rigid behind the impact of hard muscle. Craig swirled aside just in time, and thought: All right. All right, you noble bastard. So you're not drunk and you've learned a few tricks. All right. Charlie tried another kick and Craig read in his face that it was coming. His body arched, his hands swept up from beneath him, and smacked on the boot's leather, forcing the leg up and over so that Charlie fell, awkwardly this time, no break fall, the body slamming on to the wooden floor. But he came up again almost at once and rushed Craig, taking the fight to him again, except that this time Craig moved in to meet him and Charlie's arms were still trying to put a lock round him when the edge of Craig's hand struck below his chin. The blow traveled six inches, and was clearly audible. This time when Charlie fell he didn't get up.
Craig bent over him and pulled the .45 from its holster, then began punching the shells from the magazine. Simmons came over to him, carrying a glass. This time Craig took it.
"Exactly," said Simmons. "To the victor the spoils. I trust I make myself clear?"
"You do," said Craig.
"After all, there always has to be a fight in the saloon. You played your part very well."
"Thanks," said Craig.
"I didn't know that you practiced karate."
"That was Charlie," said Craig. "I used jujitsu."
"You're very good at it."
"It keeps my weight down. I never thought it would do anything else," said Craig.
"Forgive me," said Simmons, "but will poor Charlie be unconscious for long?"
"He will unless somebody helps him," said Craig, and Simmons waved for the barman.
"Those shells are blank, you know," said Simmons.
"Five of them are. The sixth one was under the hammer," Craig said, and threw it over to Simmons, who caught it neatly.
"When that one came out of your back it would leave a hole the size of a teacup."
"Yes indeed. How very nasty," Simmons said. "Charlie must have overlooked it when we left the firing range. He really is very careless."
"Doubtless he'll learn in time," said Craig.
He went back to the party, that was minding its own business of propositioning women. Tempest sat alone at a table, repairing her damaged makeup.
"I suppose it's thank-you time," she said.
"There's no need," said Craig. "He asked for it. By the end I enjoyed giving it to him." He leaned toward her and spoke softly. "Anyway I should be saying thank you for keeping quiet."
"We like you," she said. "You're not like the other—"
She started to speak again, and Craig shook his head, as Simmons and the barman went by, carrying Charlie.
"You fixed him and I'm glad you did," said Tempest. "He would have hurt me."
"I doubt it," said Craig. "It was me he wanted to hurt." He stood up.
"You're not going?" Tempest said.
"It's late. I want some sleep," said Craig.
"Well, honey, we all do. But you can't leave me. Not now I'm here for you."
"No. He just said there'd be a fight. I was to go with the winner."
"Go where?"
"The feedstore," said Tempest. "Do you know where it is?"
"Yes," said Craig. "Come on."
They walked out, and Craig heard Simmons murmur "Bless you, my children." When they walked away, the party in the saloon sounded very loud indeed. Tempest shivered.
"He offered us a lot of money," she said. "Rehearsed us himself. Didn't even make a pass. Then he told us we had to sleep with somebody tonight or the deal's off. He must be queer."
"No," said Craig. "Just odd."
"Put your arm around me," Tempest said. "I'm cold."
His arm came round her and they walked down Main Street, the cowboy and the dancehall girl. Beneath the thin stuff of her gown he could feel her body's firmness moving under his fingers. She stopped and turned to him, and her mouth opened and flowered to his, her tongue fluttered, and his arms tightened round her.
"You're a hell of a strong bloke," she gasped, and pushed closer to him. "What are you up to?"
"Who's asking?" said Craig.
"Just me, honey. I'm nosy."
"I'm working for the Foreign Office," said Craig. "A Chinese citizen was murdered a few weeks ago and Simmons's daughter saw it happen. The Chinese People's Republic wants to know why —and I've been sent to ask if she knows. When I got here I had a fight with a bull and Simmons asked me to the party."
"Poor bloody bull," said Tempest. "I bet he lost."
"He didn't win," said Craig.
She kissed him again. "Let's go to the feed store," she said.
"I'd like that," said Craig.
He opened the door, and they went inside. Craig lowered the curtains and flicked his lighter, then showed the woman how to light the oil lamp. As it glowed, warm and soft, she looked around the room. It was furnished with a brash Victorian opulence: all gold-painted wood and scarlet drapes, and Cupids and Venuses in marble, and a huge reproduction of Etty's "Youth at the Prow."
"He certainly likes them to take their clothes off," said Tempest. "Do you suppose he gets his kicks out of watching?"
