"Is there a Patron Saint of Trying to Get to the Library?" he mutters to himself. "Begob, it feels like it's taking MONTHS to get there!"
The lady answers politely. "You can make arrangements for access by contacting university administration at the Thorvald Administration Center on the DU campus in the Science Barrio."
"Hmmm... the 'varsity sounds more useful than a rare-books dealer. Could you ring'em up for me, please?" He discretely offers a small tip, and wishes he had done better homework before coming!
Once the call is made: "D'Aubainne University? My name is Charlie
Kennedy. I'm a writer, and I'd like to use Al Amarja as the background
for my next novel. Yes... Mm-hm... Yes, THAT Charlie
Kennedy." He laughs. "Well, aren't YOU a sophisticate?
Anyhow, I'm thinking of writing a thriller, with an archaeological angle,
and I understand somebody has done some interesting work here. Would
it be possible for me to do a bit of research?"
[Some posts missing?]
François and Charlie stroll out of the hotel. As they head for the Sunken Plaza, they spot Ghishu and his new friend standing near a large black limousine parked at the taxi stand. The only thing that reveals the vehicle's true identity is a small light on top with the words "Total Taxi" neatly lettered on it. Next to the rear door is a large man in a chauffeur's outfit.
Looking about, things seem pretty normal - there are a fair number of people on the streets, including a large number of street vendors, tourists, and just folks out for a stroll. Nearby signs advertise such interesting establishments as "Wilma's Cafe", "Art's Fine Arts", "Liberty Liquors" and a bar called "The Den of Thieves".
Charlie is just passing the time. He tickle any stray babies, flirts with old ladies and little girls and generally takes in the sights.
"François, I think we can skip the tourist bars and see some local colour, eh?
Charlie and François wander around Sunken for a bit, passing through several neighborhoods of various ethnicity (French, German, Nigerian, and Balinese) and generally taking in the sights. The neighborhood seems quiet and friendly enough, though the presence of armed police is pretty visible everywhere they go.
After forty minutes of walking (and working up a good, solid thirst) Charlie is just considering the possibility of suggesting that the pair duck into the next pub they see when a movement, just seen out of the corner of his eye, causes him to duck. A flying piece of rotten fruit barely misses him. From across the street a high voice screams "FUCK YOU ALL TO HELL BURGER PIGS!" Glancing that way, Charlie spots a boy (no more than 10 or 12) yelling and preparing to launch another fruit projectile.
There's never a cop around when you need one....
Charlie has been here before, but it was Belfast and a molotov cocktail. He plucks at Francois' sleeve and prepares to run...
"DAMNED TO HELL BURGER GOATS MAY THE GODS POKE YOU WITH SHARP STICKS WHEN YOU DIE!" screams the kid across the street, launching another fruity projectile. Once again Charlie dodges, still tugging at the arm of the oddly unresponsive François, but this time the fruit smacks the pavement at his feet, filling the air with the cloying scent of overripe apple and spattering his shoes.
Tugging at François' arm, Charlie encourages him to make a run
for it. The two go pelting off down the street, harassed by more
invective from the urchin. Only after the nasty little brat's curses
have been drowned out by several blocks distance does the pair halt, puffing
and blowing a bit.
"Good afternoon burger," he says in friendly (though somewhat distracted) conversational tones. His english is perfect and unaccented. "Might I interest you in some merchandise which I have for sale? All strictly legal you understand."
Charlie raises his eyebrows in the international "say more" posture, and glances at Francois to see if he has snapped out of his trance.
After a brief pause the man goes into his pitch, "I represent some ... business interests who have need of newcomers to Al Amarja for a rather simple job. No particularly technical skills are needed - the main qualification for the task is that one be a Burger. There is $1,000 dollars in it for each of you should you agree to meet with these individuals, and to sign documents of non-disclosure regarding the resulting interview and - should it come to that - your employment." He holds up a hand to forestall further questions. "Before you ask, I can tell you nothing more about this employment save where to go if you are interested."
Charlie frowns. "Sounds a wee fishy, and I'm not in need of cash. As you can see, my mate here is catatonic, that's the more pressing matter."
"Sorry Charlie. I was just considering his offer, fishy it maybe but our friend Bruce may need that money. Perhaps we could introduce this man to someone who could do the job for him." François smiles, "For a finder's fee of course."
The man seems not at all surprised. "I am paid $50.00 for each individual referred, with an additional $50.00 if they prove suitable. I will split this fee with you 50/50."
Charlie shrugs. "Sounds reasonable. And if he returns alive, maybe I'll take a flier on it too..." He turns to his companion. "Hey Frank... want to go rouse up that Auzzie Bruce? Use him for a guinea-pig, eh?"
François raises an eyebrow. "Well Charlie, this looks like a good deal to me. We know about 10 burgers, that is 5 Big Macs, or 3 1/3 triple Wendys, or 2 1/2 Pounder Burgers. We can go into business, I think. What do you reckon?"
Charlie's brow furroughs deeply. "I'd rather know that it's safe..."
The man looks at Charlie. "What on earth ever possessed you to come to Al Amarja?" he asks, perfectly serious.
"I think perhaps that Charlie came for what is known as a 'reality check'," quips François. "Personally, I prefer the other kind of Czech. So where and when do you want zese people and more importantly when do I, I mean we, get paid?" François, for once, looks less than patient.
The man shrugs. "You get paid just after I do - tomorrow evening at 7:00 pm when you deliver the requested Burger to 1610 Hawking Road, Building B, Room 226. That's in Science Barrio, the HyperCom building."
"A burger?", quizzes François, "I thought you 'ad larger appetites. I see it as a whole smorgasbord of burgers. Some with lettuce, some without pickles, some to go and some to eat in. I can deliver an' you will pay, OK?"
The man looks Francois up and down, raising one eyebrow. "Don't be crass," he says after a moment's pause. Looking back at Charlie - "So we have a deal?"
"Pithecanthropus Alamarjensis," Charlie mutters, and then gives Francois a sharp look. "Look, I've seen my share of trouble. But where I come from, a soul is worth more than a thousand Yank dollars." He has the disdain of the bourgeoisie for those who must hustle to survive.
The man simply chuckles, as though what Charlie just said was somehow
amusing. "I look forward to our meeting," he says, nodding once.
Without further comment he turns and walks away, disappearing down the
street.
"Does he want them right away?" ponders Charlie. "Our comrades are all over town by now... I don't suppose we need to hurry to round up the vict... er... others. I'll look around for an exotic street musician or something diverting. And watch my wallet."
Francois and Charlie continue to stroll about in Sunken, taking in the sights. Other than a very visible police presence (on par with that in West Berlin before the Wall came down, say) and the fact that a lot of people wear nooses for neckties, there really isn't a whole heck of a lot to distinguish the area from any large city. There are quaint shops, eateries, a variety of businesses conducting a variety of business, and not a few street vendors.
After a bit of wandering, Francois does indeed spot a street musician - a middle aged black man sitting on a bench playing a guitar. He isn't dressed as a street musician, but rather in a shirt, noose necktie, and slacks (conservatively cut). He's loosened the collar of the shirt and the noose, and is plunking away with energy, though only minor skill. A lack of anything resembling a receptacle for change in the vicinity suggests that he is doing this out of personal enjoyment rather than for monetary remuneration.
This being the case, Charlie gives him a 5-quid smile, and looks about for a shop that sells nooses. When in Rome!
"Hey, Charlie, let us 'ave some fun with zis guy", whispers François to his shy friend. François strides over to the busker, "Hey man, zat was really, really great! Have you cut any vinyl?"
The man looks up, somewhat startled, then laughs When he speaks his voice is a husky baritone, accented richly from the American south.
"Man, you got no idea what you're sayin'! I'm just plinkin' away at this ol' six-string. Only been playin' fo' about a ye-ah! Jus' somethin' ah always wanted ta do, ya know? Nevah had the time.... Then one day ah started noticin' that dat young foo' wit the big dreams had turned inta a fat, middle-aged man in da mirror, an' ah said ta myself 'Chahles, y'all had bettah start chasin' some a' those dreams fo' real, cuz you is gettin' too ol' ta chase 'em much longah!" He laughs again. "Ah talk too much, I guess" he says with a smile.
"Great Scott!" exclaims Charlie. "My name is also Charles!" He smacks himself in the forehead.
Charles does not appear particularly surprised - "Well it ain't as if it weren't a common name." He shrugs and holds onto the guitar with one hand, extending the other to Charlie. "Name's Charles Radford. Mos' folks jus' call me Cee Ay. Y'all from England?"
Charlie gives a slight wince of disgust, but François speaks first...
"Non, M'sieur, I, François have come from Marseille." He taps his ear, "You may 'ave to speak up a little. For some reason I have difficulty 'earing what those who are called Charles say. I don't know why, just seomthing in the ether, I guess."
François digs around in his pocket and fishes out a card and a pen. He writes: '1610 Hawking Road, Building B, Room 226, 7pm sharp tomorrow evening'.
He tends the card to Cee Ay, "Here, Charles, my, how you say, main man. Come here tomorrow and I might just have something for you."
Astonished at François's feat of memory, he touches the Frenchman and murmurs, "This one is no Burger..." Then, to Charles, "In some quarters, it's not safe to call an Irishman English..." An attempt at looking mean fails, and gives way to a grin and handshake.
"Ah beg yo' pahdon," C.A. says to Charlie, shaking his hand, "Geography nevah was a strong point o'mine." He turns to Francois and speaks loudly, enuciating each word "NOW THEN, WHAT IS DIS ALL ABOUT? YOU LOOKIN' TA SELL ME SOMETHIN'? IF SO, I'M 'FRAID YO' OUTTA LUCK, CUZ I AIN'T IN DA MARKET TA BUY AT DA MOMEN'!"
François steps back, slightly deafened and shaking his head. "Well, I seem to hear you just fine but I still cannot hear my friend here. It must be a curse." He lightens up at this revelation, as if things are finally making sense, "Yes, a curse, that is it!" He glares up at the sky, "You think this is bloody funny, don't you, well va te faire foutre!", he screams. "Yes, see if I care! I'll get them back and then you'll see, yes, you and your little dog Toto too!"
Suddenly, François is all calm and smiles again, " Well, Say Ah, I'm just enchanted to make your aquaintance. Perhaps I was a little too forward. Charlie here", he says pointing at his friend, as if to avoid confusion, "and I are new in town and we have yet to find our feet. Maybe you'd care to show us to a drinking establishment and I'd be only too happy to get the drinks in." François extends his hand to C.A., "No hard feelings, Old Bean", he says, in some kind of mid-atlantic drawl.
C.A. looks on with a bit of astonishment at Francois' sudden outburst, then eyes the proffered hand with a bit of skepticism for a beat before taking it.
"Y'all are a few cards shoht of a full deck, aintcha?" he says. "Well, you'll fit raht in aroun' heah. As fo' th' drink, y'all cahn find a bah raht down the block heah - 'th' Alibi' ah think its called. I ain't much of a drinkin' man these days tho'." He pats his stomach. "'Sides, I got ta be gettin' back ta work here presently."
Charlie follows along, waiting to speak to François alone.
"Barkeep?" calls Charlie. "A beer please, and whatever th' mate is having..."
"Either party want that beer deep or jumped?" asks the bartender without much interest.
"Not f'r me," says Charlie... "still my first day here!"
The barkeep brings both a Jenlain. Charlie picks up the first round. "Heh, heh... That was some character, eh?" Charlie makes smalltalk for a moment. "Eh, what wazzat about, you lookin' up and yellin? See sumpin you didna like?"
"Jenlain, pas mal," comments François, "I would 'ave prefered a Mort Subite. Anyway, here's to yours Charlie, chin-chin." François takes a deep drink of his be-ah with obvious enjoyment.
"Well Charlie," he says with a serious tone, "It's like this. Every time things seem to be going alright for me, every time something goes right, when its all going along, how you say, swimmingly?"
François starts to get really worked up about the general state of the universe. "Then, the big fella come along and FARTS IN YOUR FACE! We can't do anything without Him FUCKING INTERFERING! What's His problem, eh? You tell me. Why can't he just LEAVE US ALONE!" Suddenly François looks melancolic. "Well, what can you do anyway, there must be some way, it's not like He's omnipotent or something."
François slumps on his barstool looking thoroughly dejected, the sheer frustration of whatever is galling him seeming to have won out against hope.
Charlie looks absolutely baffled for a moment... then mutters something about being himself a Catholic, and drinks his beer.
"OW DARE YEW SPEKE ZAT WAY!" thunders a voice from the bar. An old man, in his late seventies or early eighties, clearly drunk, turns and faces François and Charlie's table. He has an outrageous french accent and a look of outrage on his besotted face.
"OO ARE YEW TO SPEAK ZAT WAY ABOUT IM? EE IS GREAT, YEW ARE NUHSING - 'A FART IN A WINDSTORM!" The old gentleman begins tottering over, leaning on a cane.
"YOU STUPID PEEG!" he screams in an alcohol slurred voice. "TAKE BACK WOT YEW 'AVE SAID! TAKE EET BACK OR ZO 'ELP ME I WEEL TRASH YEW TO WITIN AN EENCH OF YOUR WRETCHEED LAHF!" He brandishes his cane in what is intended as a threatenting manner.
(Charlie trying not to come between Francois and the Prophet...)
François seems to have decide that a cool manner would help the situation. "Of whom do I have the honour, M'Sieur?", he says extending his hand nonchalantly.
"BORDEL DE MERDE DE FILS DE PUTE D'ENFOIRE DE MES DEUX! TU ME FAIS GERBER, PETIT CONNARD!" The old man screams in response, spittle flying in all directions. Simultaneously he swings his cane in a vicious, whistling arc, which Francois avoids only by taking a step back, bumping the table and dropping his beer into Charlie's lap. The old man, for his part, is spun completely around by the swing and only just manages to keep his feet after a colossal stagger.
"OW DARE YEW PLAY ZEE GENTLEMAHN AFTER YOUR VILE EENSULTS TO EEM? YEW ARE A PIG MONSIEUR, A SHEET COVERED PEEG, AND AH WEEL NOT DIHRTY MAH HAND BY SHAKING YOURS! AH WARN YEW AGAIN, FOR ZEE LAHST TIME, TAKE BACK ZEE SINGS YEW 'AVE SAID ABOUT EEM OR AH SHALL THRASH YEW!"
"Aw, bloody'ell! Now look whatch'ew've done! Barkeep? Towel please?"
François takes on a serious tone, "Listen Old Man, I am not about to ...", interrupting himself he stares in surprise at something beyond the old man's shoulder, "FIRE!" he shouts and grabs the stick.
Fire?
Charlie puts his head down and bull-rushes for the door, trying to imitate one of those Yank-footballers; one arm will propel Francois toward the door, the other tries to rescue Mr. Cane. (With luck, I'll catch them both off balance and we'll all land in a heap.)
François' ruse is transparent, but it doesn't matter anyway - the word is still fighting upstream against the alcohol when François grabs for the cane, yanking it away with great force. Miraculously, the old man remains on his feet, though teetering prodigiously for balance. He is certainly running out of steam - his face is getting red and he is breathing heavily.
Any advantage that François might have gained is short lived, however, as he hears the rumble of a rapidly approaching freight train. Stepping nimbly to one side he manages to avoid being clotheslined by Charlie, though he feels the wind of Charlie's outstretched arm on his cheek as the writer sails by. The old man is not so nimble (he is eighty years old after all), snagging him about the waist, lifting him from his feet, and carrying him out the door.
"Fucking scarab!" yells the bartender (with a distinct Al Amarjan accent), he vaults the bar, baseball bat in hand. "Get yer hands off François or I'll cave yer skull in ya jerk!" he yells, pursuing Charlie out the door.
Charlie looks up... looks around... looks confused... and begins to help Frank2 to his feet. "Very sorry," he explains, "I couldav sworn I heard a voice cry fire. Where I come from, fire's not a joke." To the armed barkeep, he adds, "No fire?" Showing real concern, he asks Frank2, "I haven't hurt you at all, have I? You look as if you could tolerate some refreshment... It's Kennedy I am, and humiliated as well!"
(Working hard to give the impression that I'm more interested in helping my elderly friend than in saving my skin.)
VA T'FAIRE ENCULER CHEZ LES GRECS!" the old man screams at Charlie, "JE TE CASSERAI LA GUEULE!" A bony fist bounces off the side of Charlies head, bruising his ear, as Charlie struggles to disentangle himself from the raging french lunatic. He is saved from having to make the decision of fight or flight when the bartender shoves himself between him and François (v2.0).
"KNOCK IT OFF, BOTH OF YOU!" he yells, brandishing his bat at both participants. François (v2.0) immediately subsides into a sulk. The barkeep eyes him for a second, then turns to Charlie.
"This is a quiet bar, and I don't appreciate having it get disturbed. If you and your friend want trouble, go over to Sad Mary's in Flowers and yell 'fire' over there. Collect your stuff, finish your drink, and you and your friend can take it somewhere else because... gadverdamme!" he finishes, looking over Charlie's shoulder.
Charlie glances that way and notes an officer of the Peace Force crossing
the street, truncheon twirling onchalantly in one hand, heading directly
for the bar.
"Well", proclaims François, turning to face the room, "Given that it is freedom of expression happy hour, to test this proposition, I'll by two Pernods for anyone who renounces Jesus."
There is a two beat pause as owlish eyes stare at François from around the bar. Then an even dozen hands shoot into the air. Only one person refrains. A man sitting nearby chides him. "C'mon, it's two free drinks."
"Oi don't loik Pernod," he mumbles in response. Looking at François, "Can oi 'ave Absynthe instead?"
Raised voices can be heard outside.
"Absynthe? Ah, a decadent!", grins François. He looks around to see if there is any other barstaff to serve him, but none appear. Noticing that this establishment is not rich enough for another barkeep, François decides to push on.
"Bien", he says with strongly in an effort to mentally roll up his sleeves,"First you must all then publicly state that you renounce Jesus and then ... then mes we will all drink".
François holds out a $50, which he places on the bar without letting go, "This should cover it. Now, Do you renounce Jesus?" François pauses for the mumbled chorus of yes , oui, da and si. "Have you renounced Jesus?", François calls, as if just to make sure.
When the anxious drinkers have all concurred a second time, François turns to the bar and spits in his hand. Holding the cash he says, not very loudly, "That this booze may be sanctified through the power and operation of the Satan, let us curse the Lord"
He turns back to the room, "Now let us drink! Barman! Barman!", he calls to those outside, " We are all thirsty in here! Two drinks each for all us sinners!"
Francois turns back to a dead silent room. Half the eyes in the house are staring at him, and the other half are equally divided between those who are actively looking elsewhere, and those who are heading for the door. Of those who remain, those closest to François are seen to be visibly inching away.
"Boi the 'airy arse o' saintly Mary," mutters the one who didn't like
Pernod, "a Lucy."
To Be Continued...