by Nick Carter
"Shoot," I said.
"Restaurant down on El Jazzar Street. And if you want a hint about the neighborhood, El Jazzar is the Arab word for cutthroat Anyway, we've had our eye on the place and Robey was seen going in there once. Maybe he had a contact there."
Another forty-to-one-shot maybe.
He shrugged broadly. "I know it's not much, but it's all I can think of." He leaned back and met my eyes. "My own sources don't know anything useful."
"And if they did?"
He cleared his throat "I'd tell you."
"Honor bright?"
"Go to hell."
I stood up. "Not me. I'm going to heaven. For my clean thoughts and my good deeds." I took a last quick gulp of the cognac.
He held out his hand. "Good luck," he said. "And I mean it Nick. If you need any help, you can count on me."
"I know," I smiled. "As long as I've got a dime for the phone."
Four
Talk about Hell. The inside of the Club El Jazzar looked like Dante's Seventh Circle. The spot they reserve for murderers. It was a men-only crowd and to a man they looked like they'd sooner kill you than finish their drinks.
The room was small and crowded and dark, and painted a deep, blistering purple. Scimitars hung from tassled cords, and snakes of smoke climbed up the walls, heading for the low, mottled ceiling where the black wings of the whirling fan clubbed them back into senseless clouds. From somewhere in the back came the twang of an oud and the tinny jangle of a tambourine.
When I walked through the door, everything stopped. Forty pairs of eyes whipped through the air; eighty eyes moving at the same exact instant. You could almost hear them all go whizz. Then the talk began again. Lower. Rumbling. And the tambourine.
A small dark man in a sweat-drenched shirt walked over and gave me a small dark look. He folded his arms and stared at me, too short to make his macho work well. He spat on the floor. Missing my shoe by half an inch.
I smiled. "And good evening to you, too."
He cocked his head. "Amerikani?"
"Right. American. Hungry American. Friend of mine from World recommended you place." I said it loud.
He shifted his weight; erased and then redrew his frown. "You come for food?"
I nodded. "And drink."
He nodded. "Yavoh. We give you good." I already had heartburn from smelling his breath, and from the way he'd said, "We give you good," I guessed it was a good idea I'd decided to carry a bottle of charcoal. Activated charcoal is a damned good antidote for just about any poison or drug that somebody's likely to slip in your drink. Or lace in your stew. A tablespoon in a glass of water and you'll probably live to tell the story.
He led me down the length of the crowded room, past the chorus of whizzing eyes, into a second room in the back. Led me to a wine-colored plastic booth that seemed to be ringside to a small stage. Two young toughs in black satin shirts stood near the stage strumming out music, while a third, in a flowing white burnoose, absently shook the tambourine.
I hadn't an idea in hell where I was. I'd stepped onto somebody's turf all right A gangland den. But what gang?
A big broad guy came over to the table. He was a dark, intense Arab. He reached for my pack of cigarettes, took one, lit it, dragged, sat down, and examined the gold on the mouthpiece tip. "American?" He spoke with a slight accent.
"Me, yes. The cigarettes, no."
"Turkish?"
"Yeah. Right. Turkish." I was waiting for him to get to the point Or at least to what I hoped was the point My plan was simple. Dumb, but simple. I was playing two maybes against the middle. Maybe number one was the double-odds chance that maybe Robey's informer was here and that maybe he'd try to make a contact, hoping to earn another quick three grand. Maybe number two was that maybe Robey's assassin was here. That could save me some big time too. The fastest way to learn who your enemy is, is to walk into an alley and see who tries to kill you.
I studied the man across the table. He was hard, square-jawed and rippling with muscles. Under the tight green cotton t-shirt. Under the bulging faded Jeans. The waiter arrived. I ordered arak. A bottle. Two glasses.
The man across the table said, "Are you slumming?"
"Slumming?"
He narrowed his eyes in practiced defiance. "In case you haven't noticed, this is a slum. No big hotels with oceanfront views. No sunny rooms with private baths."
I sighed heavily. "So where does that lead us? To rhetoric or a fight in the alley?" I shook my head. "Listen, my friend, I've heard it all. I cover the scenes for World Magazine." I let that sink in before I went on. "And I've heard all the words and I've seen all the wars and right now I'd Just like to sit and drink and not get into any hot-breathed hassle."
"World Magazine," he said levelly.
I said, "Uh huh," and lit a cigarette. The arak came.
He said, "What's your name?"
I said, "MacKenzie."
"I doubt it."
I said, "What's yours?"
"Yousef," he told me. "Abu Abdelkhir Shukair Yousef."
"All right," I said. "I don't doubt it"
A bright light cut through the smoke to the stage and the tambourine man yelled, "Naam! Naam!" and went into a palsied frenzy of Jangles. The whistles started before she came out; a dusky girl in a shimmering silver sliver of a top and skirt that fell like a beaded curtain from a band that began way, way below the waist. Rivers of dark hair tumbled down her back, framing a face that was delicate, fine, and almost completely without makeup.
The music started, tuneless almost hypnotic in its monotony. And the girl started, slowly at first. Undulating, flowing, till her body seemed to be made of liquid, and the lights bounced off the silver of her dress like stars in a rippling fantasy sky, and her body kept melting, that incredible body.
Let me tell you about belly dancers. They're usually overweight, greasy broads with four tons of makeup and four bellies. And when ladies like that start throwing it around, you sit there hoping it isn't catching. This girl was something else. You've never dreamt better. Not even in your wildest, horniest dreams.
The dance, if that's what you call it, ended. I turned to Yousef. He was gone. The sweaty proprietor was leaning over the booth instead, his face distorted in a rusty smile. I decided I liked him better when he frowned. "Food," he said. "You say you want food?" I said I did. His smile broadened. "We give you good." It came out like a scale of descending notes. The tambourine Jangled.
He walked away. I sipped my arak, a punchy drink, a little like ouzo or Turkish raki. Three thugs from the bar came cruising past the table, a trio of printed nylon shirts, open to the waist, baring muscles and elaborate medallions. A sullen waiter arrived with the food. Speedy eyes casing me up and down. The food looked okay, meaning I wouldn't need miracle cures. Bromo, yes. Charcoal, no. I started to eat.
The trio came back, taking me in, calculating height and weight and power. They went back to the bar and reported their findings to the others. To the gang.
What gang?
Whatever their game was, it wasn't subtlety. Three other boys from the bar took a stroll. A-one and a-two and a-three and a — strides timed to the Jangling beat. They passed me and turned and sauntered on back. Average height: five foot ten; average age: twenty-one. They reached my table and slumped themselves into the booth around me. I went on eating. They watched. The one in the purple and orange shirt leaned on the table and hunched forward. He had long hair and a fleshy, pouting, tough-guy face. "So," he said in English," you like shashlik?"
Here we go, I thought. It's going to be that kind of a scene. A 1950s hood-style confrontation, dated smart-ass dumb-dumb stuff.
"No," I said. "I ordered mosquitos. But I've learned in life to take what I get. Like you guys, for instance." I went on eating.
Purple-and-Orange turned to Red Stripes. "Smart," he said. "The American is smart."
"Smart," said Red Stripes, who wasn't smart enough to think of something else.
"Now,
I don't know…" It was Green Flowers with a wide smirk. "I don't think he's all that smart."
Happy New Year, '53, I said to myself. They weren't armed, that much I knew. The tight shiny shirts and the tight shiny pants were molded so close to their nervous bodies, they couldn't conceal even cuticle scissors. I could take them all on and walk away smiling. But they didn't know it, or they didn't care. They were young and angry and begging for a fight.
"Not so smart," said Purple-and-Orange. I figured he was Leader Of The Pack. (What pack?) "Not so smart to come El Jazzar. You know what means El Jazzar?"
I sighed. "Listen, fellas. I think it's swell of you to come over here. I mean, not many people would take time out just to cheer up a lonely stranger. So I want you to know it's with great gratitude and high appreciation that I tell you now — buzz off."
There was a small conference on the meaning of "buzz off." I let my right hand slip to my lap, in case I had to reach for my Luger. The flash of Wilhelmina would scare them off. They'd be no trouble to take on alone, but once a fist fight started in here, I'd be fighting the entire clientele. And sixty to one are not my best odds.
They de-coded "buzz off" and made their first move-menacing faces, rising haunches. I had my palm on the butt of my gun, but it wasn't Wilhelmina's butt that came to the rescue. The belly dancer came back on the stage. "Gentlemen," she said, in Arabic, "I wish for assistance in special dance. Who gives me help?" She looked around the room. "You!" she said quickly to Purple-and-Orange. She crooked her finger in a come-on gesture. "Come," she coaxed.
He hesitated. Half annoyed, half flattered. "Come," she said again. "Or are you shy? Ah, too shy? Ah, too bad!" She pursed her lips and flicked her hips. "Big man scared of such a little girl?"
The room laughed. That did it Purple-and-Orange leaped on the stage. She ran a hand through his long black hair. "Perhaps you will need your friends to protect you. Come on, friends." She peered through the lights and beckoned with her finger. "Come protect him."
She did a bump. Again, hot laughs from the smoky room. And in few seconds, Red Stripes and Green Flowers were up on the stage.
The music started. Her body started. Weaving and floating around the three men. Arms dipping, flitting, teasing; back arching, hips thrusting. She was thin by Middle Eastern standards. Firm and lithe, with just the gentlest swell of a belly. Narrow waist. Round, gorgeous, melon breasts.
She was looking at me.
She was still looking.
She gestured once, abruptly, with her head. A second later she did it again, looked in my eyes and tossed her head; moved her eyes in the direction of the door. The international language for Scram.
I took her advice. She'd gotten the kiddies off my back. And maybe it wasn't coincidence. Besides, I was finished at El Jazzar. I'd shown my face and flashed my bait. Word would get around. If somebody wanted to find me, he would. And there might be a reason for getting out now. Maybe somebody wanted to meet me. Or maybe somebody wanted to kill me. I threw down a bunch of bills and left.
No trouble getting out through the bar. Nobody's eyes so much as whizzed. That should have been my first hint.
I got to the street. In front of the club, I lit a cigarette. I listened for sounds that might be shoes scuffling on the broken-stone street, a knife blade clicking out of its shell, or a long breath taken before a leap. But I heard nothing.
I started walking. The street was no more than twelve feet wide; wall to wall twelve feet wide. The buildings leaned in. My footsteps echoed. Still no sounds, nothing but the narrow winding streets, the yawl of a cat, the light of the moon.
Blam! He leaped from the arch of a window, a barrel of a man crashing into me, mid-shoulder, taking me with him on a long, spiraling, backward ride. The impact took both of us through the air and rolled us over to the mouth of an alley.
They were waiting, six of them, raring to go. And these weren't eager, sloppy kids. These were the grownups and they knew their stuff. The barrel rolled off and I sprinted up, slicking Hugo, my Stiletto, into my palm. But it was hopeless. Two more guys jumped out from behind, jailing my arms, looping my neck.
I kicked at the first advancing groin and tried to judo my way out of jail. No way. The only thing I'd fought in the last fourteen weeks was the punching bag at Aunt Tillie's. And punching bags don't punch back. My timing stank. They were all over me, butting my gut, blasting my jaw, and somebody's boot howled into my shin, my newly-minted left shin, and if you want to know what happened after that, you'd better ask them. I was out.
Five
The first thing I saw was a sea of black. Then, slowly, the stars came out. And a crescent moon. I figured I hadn't died and gone to heaven because I figure when you're dead, your jaw doesn't feel like a bruised melon and your leg isn't sending you Morse code messages of pain.
My eyes adjusted. I was looking through a skylight, lying on a daybed in a large room. A studio. An artist's studio. It was lit by candles on tall stands, and they threw sharp shadows on the bare wood floors and the canvases stacked up against the walk.
At the end of the room, maybe thirty feet away, Abu Abdelkhir Shukair Yousef sat on a chair examining my gun.
I closed my eyes and thought about that. Okay, I'd gone to El Jazzar, brainless and rusty and asking for trouble and the whimsical genie had granted my wish. Three stupid moves in one short evening. Breaking a world's record for stupidity. Quick. Call Guinness. I knew I'd make his record book sooner or later.
First, I'd been set up by a rotten bellydancing broad; second, I'd been beaten up by a gang of thugs in an alley; third, the most stupid of all, I'd thought I was smart Chutzpah, that's the word. More guts than sense. And now I was stuck with playing it out.
I tried to get up. My body didn't think that was such a good idea. In fact, it told my head to take a flying leap. My head was obeying — round and round and round.
Yousef was starting to cross the room. Gun in hand — Luger Wilhelmina.
He said, "It seems you've had a small fight."
It didn't feel so small."
He laughed without humor. "Around here — if you live through the fight, we consider it small." He lotused himself onto the floor and handed me the gun. "I think you lose this." He pulled out my stiletto. "And also this."
"Well, I'll be damned." I took the Luger and shoved it in my waistband and slipped the stiletto back into its sheath. I looked at Yousef. He'd lost the sullen cutthroat look and was watching me with quiet appraisal.
"How did I get here?"
"I thought you would ask. I found you in the alley."
I winced at the phrase. It made me feel like an orange peel, or a bag of leaking coffee grounds. Things you find in alleys.
"I also found your gun behind a pillar. They did a pretty good job on you."
" 'Good' depends on where you're sitting." I met his eyes. "Where are you sitting?"
"You could say I am not a good friend of the gang."
Now. At last. "What gang?"
"Do you want a drink?"
"What gang?"
He got up and found a bottle of vodka. "To start with," he said from across the room, "they call themselves B'nai Megiddo. In English: Sons of Armageddon. And if you happen to remember your Bible — "
"Armageddon is the end of the world."
"You're close. It's where they fight the final war."
"My head is where they fought the final war. Who are those guys? And what have they got against my head?"
He handed me the bottle. I took a belt from it and studied his face. A big, bony, bent-nosed face. Close-cropped hair. Smart-sad eyes. Now they flickered with mild amusement. "Maybe they only wanted to rob you… or maybe they understand who you are."
"Who? Me? MacKenzie of World?"
He shook his head. "And I am King Faisal. I don't think Megiddo knows who you are, but I do. You worked with Robey and so did I. And reporters do not carry Lugers and stilettos. Now, you want to talk business or not?"
"How
much does it cost?"
"Five hundred dollars in your kind of money."
"What Robey was paying?"
"Yes. Exactly. I throw in saving your life for nothing."
I took another drink. "How about the vodka? Is that on the house?"
He leaned back and gave me a cool narrow look. "Ah, yes. You resent me for charging. The pure-minded, high-principled American and the nasty, hustling, amoral Arab."
I shook my head. "Uh uh. Wrong. And while we're doing the stereotypes, I resent being thought of as pure-minded." I handed him the bottle. "But you're right about one thing. I am suspicious of guys who sell news because news is something you can sell two times. Once to each side. Neat double profit"
His hand gripped the bottle. His eyes cut mine. "That doesn't apply."
Our eyes dueled for another few seconds. "Okay," I said, "I think I buy that. For openers, tell me — how did you get in the newspaper game?"
"For openers," he repeated, filing the phrase, "I am a Druse. You understand?"
I understood. The Druse are a small Islamic sect, persecuted in most Arab countries. About 40,000 of them live in Israel and live much better than under the Arabs. I let him go on.
"Originally I come from the Golan Heights. The land Israel won in 1967. But I am not a vegetable farmer. And I am not a basketweaver." I glanced quickly at the stacks of canvas. Strong, rocky, black landscapes. "So," he said simply, "I come to Tel Aviv."
"With no love lost for the Syrians, I take it."
"With no love at all. And I am a Syrian." He stared at the bottle he was holding in his hand. "But first I am a man. And second a Druse." He started to smile. "Funny how one becomes attached to one's labels. In truth, I suppose I'm an atheist But they call me a Druse. They persecute me as a Druse. And so I say proudly, I am a Druse."
He took a long swig and put down the bottle. "And that story too is 'on the house.' Now, we discuss B'nai Megiddo."
