It is 3:00 A.M., a warm electric night, violet haze in the air and the smell of sewage and Coleman lanterns. The pitchmen wear pink shirts, striped pants, and sleeve garters. They have gray night faces, cold eyes, and smooth patter.
One of the shills with a Cockney accent and a thin red acne-scarred face, standing in front of a curtained booth, makes a gesture that is unmistakably obscene and at the same time incomprehensible. Audrey is reminded of an incident from his early adolescence down on Market Street, brass knucks and crooked dice in pawnshop windows and a smooth high-yellow pitchman trying to talk him into a 'museum,' as he called it.
'Shows all kind masturbation and self-abuse. Young boys need it special.'
Audrey does not exactly understand what the man is talking about. He turns and walks abruptly away. The mocking voice of the pitchman follows him.
We walk on and stop in an all-night restaurant where an old Chinese serves us chili and coffee. He puts a CLOSED sign on the front door and locks it.
'Out this way....'
He shows us out the back door into a weed-grown alley by the fence. Frogs are croaking and the first light of dawn mixes with the red sky. A boy pads up beside us silent as a cat.
'You come with me, mister. Somebody want to talk you.'
The boy has a straw-colored face dusted with orange freckles, kinky red hair, and lustrous brown eyes. He is bare-footed and dressed in khaki shorts and shirt. We walk along beside the fence.
'Here.'
The boy pulls aside a piece of tar paper. A little green snake slides away. Under the paper is a rusty iron panel set in concrete. We go down a ladder and through a winding passage that smells of sewage and coal gas, out into a narrow street that looks like Algiers of Morocco.
The boy suddenly stops, sniffing like a dog. 'In here, quick.'
He guides us into a doorway, up stairs and a ladder onto a roof. Looking down, we see a patrol of six soldiers with machine guns checking every doorway on the street. Audrey studies the gray faces and cold fishy eyes of the soldiers.
'
'Fuckin' Heroids—' the boy spits.
The boy guides them through a maze of roofs and catwalks down a skylight, finally stopping in front of a metal door. He takes a little disk from his coat pocket. The disk bleeps faintly and the door opens.
A Chinese youth stands there. He is wearing a pistol in a holster at his belt. It is a bare room with a table, chairs, a gun rack, and a large map on one wall. A man turns from the map. It is Dimitri.
'Ah, Mr. Snide, or should I say Audrey Carsons, so glad to see you again.' We shake hands. 'And your young assistant as well.' He shakes hands with Jimmy Lee. 'Both somewhat altered—but none the worse for wear.'
We introduce the others.
'You are welcome, gentlemen ... and now, there is much to explain.' He stands before the map with a long thin hazel stick in his hand. 'We are here—' he circles the area below the plateau of Fun City down along the Ba'dan riverfront. 'It is known as the Casbah. Outlaws and criminals of all times and places are to be found here. The area is heavily patrolled and the soldiers, as you have observed, are all heroin addicts. Their addiction conveys immunity to the fever and assures absolute loyalty to their masters who, of course, supply them ... extra rations for arrests ... rations cut for any dereliction of duty.'
