Blaine approached and saw that both Abidir’s eyes were covered by black patches. Those parts of his face left exposed by his cap showed ancient skin, dried and wrinkled, scarred by both age and the elements. The eyes of his cobra twitched as Blaine stepped before him and blocked out the sun.
“Test your courage, my good man,” the blind man offered. “Pet the snake for a few pennies. For a few more, I’ll play a tune and have him do a dance.”
“You knew I was a man.”
“The blind see much when they’re careful about it. I can sense much about you from this wretched frame I’m stuck in. A brave one you are, you might pet the snake near its fangs.”
McCracken dropped a pair of coins into the cup. “I would have dropped bills but the sound might not have caught your attention.”
“You’d be surprised, my friend. Enough of your American bills and I’ll change the snake into a woman for your pleasure.”
“It’s information I’m after. I’m looking for a man who calls himself El Tan.”
Abidir’s expression remained the same. The cobra stirred briefly on his shoulder. “I know no such man.”
“I heard different.”
“You heard wrong.”
“I’m prepared to pay.”
“Only if you don’t mind receiving nothing in return.”
“What a pity….”
McCracken was in motion very fast, lunging behind Abidir and grabbing for the snake. He used the beast to drag the charmer backwards behind the cover of his wagon. Then he pulled the snake tighter, using it the way he would a rope.
“Don’t worry,” Blaine soothed, “I won’t hurt him any more than whatever drug you’ve got him on.”
“I can’t … breathe!”
“You can talk. That’s good enough.”
“Please, you can’t rob me. I’m just a poor blind man. Have compassion!”
McCracken felt the tranquilized snake make a futile effort to free itself. “You’re no more blind than I am. But you will be, unless you talk. Where can I find El Tan?”
The snake charmer gagged for air. “I can’t direct you without the proper signal. It would mean my—”
McCracken shut off more of his wind. “This should do….” Finally he let the pressure up and Abidir slumped over, gasping.
The snake charmer caught the breath Blaine allowed him and gave up his resistance. “Le Club Miramar. Pass a note to the dancer Tara with El Tan’s name written on it. She will take care of the rest.”
Le Club Miramar, Blaine learned upon entering, featured exotic dancing all day long. Exotic in Marrakesh might have been referred to as topless back in America. Add to that a bit of sexually explicit posturing thrown in for good measure and you have the definition of “exotic.”
The club was located in the modern section of the city, but the streets nonetheless maintained a flavor similar to that of the market square. The bargaining proved just as intense and the crowds almost as numerous even at night.
He arrived at Le Club Miramar in time to snare a front-row seat for Tara’s performance. She stepped onstage to the applause of the audience, dressed in a green bodysuit that looked like the skin of a snake. Blaine recalled Abidir and his drugged cobra and wondered if the connection might have been intentional. Intentional or not, it lasted only as long as Tara’s snake suit stayed wrapped round her body, which was not long at all. She peeled it off in great reptilean strips, much to the delight of the audience, which was composed half of locals and half of tourists, all of whom were eager for a chance to slide currency into Tara’s G-string, which before long was the last bit of clothing she wore. The more money, the longer Tara would stay before the customer. One customer paid enough to have his entire head swallowed in the radiant beauty’s giant breasts.
At last Tara made it over to McCracken and gazed at him as if genuinely interested. He leaned a bit forward over the stage to slide an American bill into place, making sure Tara saw the note sandwiched within it. The dancer nodded slightly, eyes telling him to stay where he was.
Blaine waited through her set and that of another dancer. The next approached him early in her routine and eyed McCracken seductively. He took the hint and came forward to slip her the standard gratuity. She. grasped his hand tenderly, and drew his face to hers. While kissing him, she passed a note into his left hand. He completed the kiss without even acknowledging the presence of the paper. He gazed at it only when the dancer had parted from him and he was certain all other eyes were fixed upon her. It was a cocktail napkin with an address printed upon it:
Dar es Salaam, Derb Raid Jerdid ….
And beneath that, in English:
Table five in three hours ….
McCracken rose from his seat, and another eager patron took his place before he even had a chance to slide the chair back under the counter.
Three hours later to the minute, Blaine entered the Dar es Salaam restaurant, which featured authentic Moroccan cuisine such as couscous and pastilla. The dinner rush had long wound down and the maître d’, dressed in formal robes, approached him straightaway.
Blaine interpreted the bulge of his eyes as disdain for the ruffled appearance the long day had given him, but those same eyes froze when Blaine produced the note directing him to table five. Without further hesitation, the maître d’ led him to a private booth in the rear of the restaurant. He pulled back a curtain and beckoned Blaine to enter. This done, the curtain was drawn closed again. Behind it was a semicircular booth designed to accommodate four or five people and Blaine slid into it.
Minutes later he caught the sound of footsteps approaching before a shadow reached up for the curtain.
“Mind if I sit down?” asked an older, graying man with a British accent.
“Sorry. This booth’s reserved.”
“So I was told,” the Brit came back, pushing his disheveled hair from his forehead. He stepped into the private booth and drew the curtain behind him.
Blaine tensed. “I have a meeting here.”
“Yes, with the infamous El Tan. Well, ease up, old boy. You’re looking at him.”
The Brit sat down across from McCracken in the booth. He was wearing a loose-fitting, crinkled beige suit stained by sweat at the underarms. His shirt was yellowed white and his beard as much from yesterday as today. His eyes were dull and listless. He breathed heavily.
“The name’s Professor Gavin Clive,” the older man told Blaine. “The El Tan business is just a cover. Keeps people off my back when I don’t want them there, eh?” He pulled a pocket flask from his suit jacket and poured part of its contents into the empty water glass before him. “Never been one to trast what someone else pours for me. You read me, sport?” A sip and a pause. “You buying or selling?”
“Depends on how you answer a few questions.”
Professor Clive stopped the water glass halfway to his mouth and gazed at him knowingly. “One of those, eh? Yes, I suspected this latest business would bring your kind out of the woodwork.”
“And just what is my kind?”
“Fixer, repairman; what’s in a name anyway?” Clive finished and sipped from the glass. “Don’t care much, either.” He started coughing and kept at it until his face purpled. The spasm over, he lifted the glass back to his mouth in a trembling hand and drained whatever contents hadn’t slid over the sides. “The liver’s gone, lungs too. Cancer and plenty more eating them away. I’ve got six months. The last two won’t be pleasant.”
“I haven’t come here to kill you.”
Professor Clive looked almost disappointed. He sighed loudly. “I guess Sadim probably knows letting me live is a greater punishment for my sins.”