Bled Dry

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  She stared into space and thought carefully, searching for the easiest way to divulge why she had come. Hanash watched as the expression on her face changed. The confidence she had strode in with gave way to a pout and she cast her eyes to the floor. She took a few quick breaths. He knew she was trying to keep her composure. He moved back around his desk and pushed the button on his phone to mute so that they wouldn’t be interrupted. He could tell she was searching for a way to seem unrehearsed.

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Start from the beginning.”

  She took a beautifully embroidered kerchief from her purse and clutched it nervously. “Better to start from the end. My husband was kidnapped.”

  He understood intuitively that what was most important was not her husband’s kidnapping, but the way in which the kidnapping would be resolved. She gave him the information, piece by piece, monitoring his reactions. This was curious to Hanash because it was the same conversational tactic the big-time drug dealers used. They would give clipped, half-sentence responses to see if their interrogator responded. And they were never in a rush. They knew that the development of the case was dependent upon every little detail they decided to share.

  “What is your husband’s name?” Detective Hanash asked firmly.

  “Mohamed bin Bushuayb, known as al-Sabliyuni.”

  The detective sat back, taking his time. He was bothered by the fact that he had never heard this name before. “Is he currently living in Tangier?” he asked, as though they had been friends forever.

  “He’s from Katama, like me, but we were living in Spain.”

  This cut to the heart of the matter: Katama was a world-renowned hash paradise. He nodded, indicating that her message had been received. “Do you have a picture of him?” he asked.

  There was a long silence, as if he had asked her to divulge something off limits. He turned to his computer and typed something, looking at the screen. She searched in her purse, and took out a small picture that had been in a side pocket. She looked at it adoringly before handing it over to him. Detective Hanash stared at it intently, as though this man were his sworn enemy even before meeting him. Bushra bit her lip, convinced that she had just entangled herself in something grave. Detective Hanash knew exactly what her movements meant: that this was the beginning of an agreement between them.

  “Do you know his kidnappers?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he knew the answer in advance.

  “No” she said, trying hard to chart an ambiguous route.

  He shook his head, knowing what she was up to. “How did you find out he was kidnapped?”

  “One of them called me and warned me not to talk to the police. My husband spoke as well, and asked me not to call them. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but here I am.”

  “What did the kidnappers request from you?”

  “A briefcase, but I have no idea where it is.”

  He got up from his desk and took a seat next to her.

  “What’s your husband’s line of work?” he asked with a sense of gravity that warned her not to lie.

  “I don’t know exactly. I’m just a housewife. We were living in Marbella and then moved here just five months ago. And then my husband was kidnapped.”

  She sniffled, choked up, and looked as though she were about to start sobbing.

  “If I understand you correctly, you want to get your husband back,” he said with feigned empathy. “The kidnappers asked you to hand over a briefcase and you don’t know where it is.”

  She nodded without looking up at him.

  Hanash was struck by the gall of this woman. What she had divulged so far lacked cohesion. He hadn’t yet pressured her or asked follow-up questions as he would in a real interrogation. He wanted to give her a sense of assurance and listen to her without suspicion, but his years of working with criminals had taught him not to trust what she was saying. He knew she was testing him to see if he would reveal anything he knew about her husband.

  She sensed that Hanash was figuring her out and starting to read her thoughts.

  “I think your husband is engaged in illegal activities,” he said, which clearly took her by surprise.

  He was extremely polite in how he crafted this accusation. She went silent for a moment, not knowing how to respond. She knew that whatever she said next would be filed away by Hanash. She muttered some incomprehensible, barely audible remark and then shut up, thinking it better to not even venture a comment. Her mood had changed completely.

  Detective Hanash returned to his desk. She did not look like a grieving woman whose husband had been kidnapped by a gang. Her outfit, composed of items from famous Spanish designer boutiques, suggested someone who clearly had other intentions in visiting the office of Tangier’s most notorious detective.

  3

  Detective Hanash would meet up with Bushra whenever she visited Casablanca, putting her up in a secret apartment he owned downtown. Whenever she came down from Tangier he would take time off work. He would tell his family that he had some urgent business and would leave without giving a time frame for his return. This particular time he claimed that he was needed in Fez—taking advantage of the news of a recent spree of burglaries and murders there.

  For some time now, the proprietor of the Hotel Scheherazade had stopped paying the kickback to police so they wouldn’t come after its top customers—businessmen who would do anything to avoid scandal and preserve their family life. Any facility that serviced this nightlife—bars, clubs, and brothels—paid off the police to safeguard their interests, and the rates were higher on weekends and paydays. On these days the scene was particularly lucrative. The parties raged into the morning, and everyone benefited; even the cats and dogs got scraps from half-eaten, decadent meals. The weekend cut was methodically planned between the bosses across the board. Hanash took his rotation every two months, sometimes every three. Anyone who entered this business got paid the same share. Detective Hanash could have delegated someone else to take his place, but he didn’t trust anyone not to skim a bit off of his share. Even his closest friend wouldn’t hand over more than half the collection.

  The street in front of Hotel Scheherazade was swarming with police when Hanash arrived. The police presence and number of vehicles in front of the hotel made it seem like the response to a terrorist operation. A security officer was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, his attention on the hotel entrance. Another officer was indoors inspecting the guest registry. The men and women outside were separated into two lines as uniformed officers led them in pairs to cars that would take them to the station. Most of the clientele heading to the station were those who couldn’t afford to pay, so their arrests were intended to divert attention. The real targets of this operation were the men who were still in their rooms with their mistresses, and who would get to haggle with Hanash when he arrived.

  The officer inspecting the hotel’s guest registry gave Hanash a proper salute and handed over the registry. Hanash skimmed through it. He paused and looked up at the officer. They both knew instinctively that they would begin with room seven.

  The detective knocked on the door to room seven, not giving Hamadi and Nezha time to get dressed before ordering the hotel employee to unlock the door. A young, well-built police officer charged into the room. The detective entered, followed by a uniformed security guard who blocked the door with his wide shoulders. Hanash cast a disgusted look at Hamadi, who barely had time to put his glasses on. He didn’t even acknowledge Nezha.

  “Police! Are you deaf? I said police!” he barked.

  Hamadi stood there shaking, his legs barely able to support him.

  The hotel hallways were full of commotion, a mix of women’s screams and men’s pleading as the team of police took over the place. Nezha was unimpressed. This whole scene was an act from a play she had performed in before. She wasn’t concerned at all. She put on her clothes quietly and went to the bathroom, where she peed loudly—an act of defiance. W
hen she returned to the room, though, the young police officer lunged at her, slapping her with such force that she crumpled against the wall. Nezha knew that the real motivation behind the slap was to intimidate and frighten Hamadi. She was just a poor, broke prostitute they wouldn’t get a single dirham from. What concerned them was the man with a high-powered job, a reputation, and a family to protect, whom they’d caught red-handed cheating. He was the big catch.

  Hamadi was so bewildered that he forgot where he was and how he had gotten there. He began to feel unwell. His lips were dry and he was incredibly thirsty. With great difficulty, he made his way to the bathroom and bent over to place his hands under the tepid water coming out of the decaying faucet. He took a good look at himself in the mirror as Hanash started scolding him like a dog.

  “Come over here . . . in front of me, old man.”

  Hamadi shook his head feebly without lifting his eyes. Filtering into the room were all sorts of sounds: women sobbing, desperate pleas, and other adulterers trying to make deals. There was a prostitute shouting hysterically outside on the street. She was yelling that she needed to be released because she had given her baby sleeping medication and left him home alone. Then came the sound of her being slapped, which put an end to her appeals.

  Detective Hanash produced a look of total indifference as he gazed at Hamadi, who appeared humble, as if seeking a pardon. Then Hanash looked at Nezha in disgust. She was sobbing in the corner, her hand over the side of her face that had been slapped.

  “Stand up and don’t move! And shut up, or I’ll bury you alive!” said Hanash angrily.

  Nezha’s voice trembled and she burst into tears. “Hit me as much as you want, sir, but please don’t take me to the station.”

  The officer squeezed her ear violently, knowing she would barely be able to breathe after this. She felt as if he had ripped it off with a pair of sharp pincers and her body was rising toward the ceiling. He let go of her ear and wiped his hand on his sleeve, warning her with a nod that he would do it again if she so much as opened her mouth. Nezha gulped air, tasting her tears and snot, trying not to collapse.

  Hanash did a circuit of the room, noticing sticky tissues near the bed. He smiled wryly, knowing that the time had come for him to deliver the reprimand that he had memorized. He looked at Hamadi, who was sitting there guilt-ridden.

  “Aren’t you embarrassed?” he started in. “A bank director and a respected father who is cheating on his wife with this piece of dirt who is younger than your youngest daughter! How will you face your wife? Your children? Your colleagues at work? Look at yourself! You didn’t even use a condom? Aren’t you even afraid of giving some disease to your wife?”

  Nezha trembled, furious at Hanash’s accusations that she was dirty and disease-ridden.

  Hamadi broke down and began sobbing. He looked up at Hanash imploringly.

  “Please help me, sir, God protect you,” he stammered. “I can’t go to the station. . . . How can we reach an agreement?”

  Detective Hanash ordered the officer to remove Nezha from the room. He dragged her by the arm and shoved her hard toward the door, where the security guard caught her.

  “She can wait in the hallway,” the officer said to the guard, and locked the door.

  Hamadi gained courage and looked at the detective. “I’ll give you a thousand dirhams.”

  The young officer cackled derisively, displaying the braces on his teeth. He shifted about restlessly, revealing the handcuffs and revolver under his belt.

  Hanash glared at Hamadi, enraged. He grabbed Hamadi by the collar and shook him violently.

  “Is this what we’re worth to you? I bet you lost more money than this on that bitch. . . . If I order them to take you to the station there’s no going back, no matter what you pay! And if you’re arrested when you leave here there isn’t a higher power in the land that will prevent you from being sentenced for infidelity, public intoxication, debauchery, and God knows what else. How will you face your wife, your children, your friends, and your bosses? We are doing you a favor. We want you to avoid prison, to avoid a massive scandal. And you’re bartering with us?”

  Hamadi bowed his head in silence, and for the first time found himself thinking about his wife. She would never forgive him for infidelity. She would let him rot in prison. And his son Radwan, an engineer, how would he take the news? And his daughter, a university professor married to another professor who happened to be a member of the Islamic party? The scandal would reverberate throughout the community.

  “If you aren’t in a rush,” said Hanash, “we have work to do.”

  Hamadi stared at his executioners, one by one, and could sense that he was a catch for them. He knew his situation was hopeless. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, which had been lying on the ground, took out all the money in his wallet, and handed it over: three thousand dirhams.

  Hanash counted the cash quickly, gave Hamadi a look of satisfaction, and placed the money in his inner jacket pocket.

  “Don’t leave the room now,” he said, “and don’t let this slut stay with you. It’s best to spend the night here and leave in the morning.”

  Before Hamadi had time to utter a word in protest the detective had rushed out of the room, headed for another.

  Hamadi remained frozen in place, all the color drained from his face. He looked sick and exhausted—dark blue rings had appeared under his eyelids. Had they asked, he would have been willing to write a blank check to avoid scandal. Nezha came back into the room, drew close to him, and kissed his head. Despite her uneasiness, she feigned a smile and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I don’t think the guy at the front desk was working with the police. I know him well. Maybe there was a misunderstanding between the police and hotel owner.”

  Hamadi started to feel a tightness in his chest. Nezha’s babbling was making him feel nauseated. He was trembling, not from fear, but because he felt he was getting sick.

  “You didn’t have to give them all your money. They would have been okay with the thousand dirhams that you first suggested. Trust me, I’ve seen this before.”

  Clearly Nezha had overheard what had happened. Hamadi remained in place, silent. He couldn’t deal with her right now. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes under his thick-rimmed glasses and felt the fever creep through his body. He stood there, still stunned, unable to even look at Nezha.

  “I’m leaving,” he said, feeling suffocated. He paused for a moment, holding his keys and waiting for her response.

  “Don’t you want to stay till the morning as usual?” she asked.

  He looked down and shook his head. He stood at the door while Nezha took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up the last one in the pack.

  “Can you wait until I finish my cig?” she said angrily as she blew smoke in his direction.

  She drew one leg over the other in an attempt to lure him back in, but he turned his back. It was clear to her now that things would never be the same between them. Her generous monthly client was about to vanish into thin air. She then remembered that she didn’t even have enough money for a cab home, and there was no way she could ask Hamadi since he had just emptied his entire wallet.

  “Can you give me a ride home?”

  He didn’t even answer her as he left the room.

  An amusing scene awaited Detective Hanash in the next room. There was a pretty, polished woman in risqué underwear, accompanied by a young man who could have been her son’s age. He was wearing only his underpants, and despite the tense atmosphere in the room, his penis remained hard as a rock. This amused the police so much that they called their boss to come take a look. Hanash was shocked when he saw the guy, and after taking a second to catch his breath, he looked at the woman. She seemed respectable and refined—likely not a prostitute at all. What a catch, especially if she was married! And then there was this young guy, in his underwear, with his weapon standing up. The officers were too distracted by the guy’s penis to ask the woma
n any questions. The woman seemed unshaken. To Hanash, her calmness suggested that she had already been given the okay by another officer.

  Hanash looked squarely at the young man and said, “Put down your weapon, you bastard!”

  All the officers burst out in laughter. Even the woman couldn’t resist a wry smile.

  “What can I do? I can’t control it,” said the young man, shaking from fear.

  Everyone started laughing again, and the detective looked at the woman, feigning scorn.

  “Didn’t you do anything to cool him off? You should have chosen someone closer to your age, madam.”

  This made the woman blush, but the young man took it as an insult.

  “We did it twice,” he said.

  One of the officers told him to shut up and the young man recoiled, still straight as a spear.

  “Did you take Viagra?” Detective Hanash asked.

  The young man bristled and fired back at him: “I’m from Dakala, and men from my region are well known for their virility.”

  Hanash didn’t know how to respond to this at first. The young man had crossed the line. How dare he suggest that his manhood was greater than that of Hanash and his men!

  “What makes you people so horny is that you’ve been having sex with animals since you were kids,” Hanash quipped.

  Everyone laughed, and Hanash ordered the officers to take the man to the station.

  “We’ll see if he stays like that at the station,” said an officer. He pushed him away and a security guard grabbed him.

  The detective turned his attention to the woman.

  She began explaining, as if she had prepared her statement in advance: “I’m an agricultural engineer who travels a lot for work. One time I visited the agricultural area in Dakala and met this young man, who was working in the fields. I’ve been divorced for three years . . . and when it comes to my body, just like anyone else, it’s my right to do what I want. Since getting divorced I hadn’t been with anyone until I met this guy a month ago. I was really scared, and I know what I did was wrong, but it just happened. I got in touch with him, and he brought me to this place. I’m responsible for what happened and I’ll pay whatever you suggest.”