Layover in Dubai

“No.” Sam hesitated. “But I asked.”

“And?”

“He said it was personal. ‘Personal business.’ Those were his words.”

“Anything else?”

“I didn’t press him for more.”

He hadn’t needed to. In truth, Charlie had talked awhile longer, although none of it was anything Sam felt comfortable sharing.

“Wonder where they got her from?” Charlie had said, staring as their waitress departed in a skirt cut to the tops of her thighs. “Whatever. We’ll be seeing plenty more of that later.”

He enjoyed a laugh at Sam’s expense.

“Don’t worry, Sam. I know you’ve been told I’m a bad boy.”

Sam looked down at his drink, tongue-tied. He was unwilling to lie anymore to maintain his cover.

“Well, Nanette’s right. I am a bad boy. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one. We’ve got some real predators at Pfluger Klaxon, old son.”

“You mean our pricing policies?”

“Oh, hell, don’t come at me with any of that Big Pharma crap. Yes, we’re profiteering bastards, but our products do save a few million lives. I made peace with all that ages ago. You either do business or you go out of business. What I’m talking about is personal. People who aren’t bothered by any sort of behavior, no matter who it hurts.”

Charlie made it sound like a confession, and then briefly lowered his head, as if seeking absolution. But when he looked back up he grinned widely.

“But why am I telling you, of all people? From what I hear you’ve got the opposite problem. Shortest leash in the building, and self-maintained. Saint Sam of Auditing.”

Sam shrugged, embarrassed.

“True enough, I guess. But I screwed up early on. Nearly blew a whole account.” He told Charlie about his debacle in Asia, and the ensuing crackdown from upstairs.

Charlie snorted.

“Hell, that’s nothing. And all those warnings? Take ’em with a grain of salt. Learn from it, sure. But always remember, you’re the one out in the field getting his boots muddy, so live like you want. Stretch yourself. Soak up a little atmosphere. They don’t own you, you know.”

The man had a point. There had to be a happy medium between running off the rails and chugging along in the same narrow-gauge track, around and around. Not that Charlie offered such a great example. Follow his path and someday maybe he, too, would be traveling with a correct little junior chaperone.

A similar thought must have occurred to Charlie, judging by his next remark.

“Just don’t overdo it, old son. No matter what some misbehaving old fart like me tells you. Because once you do, atonement is damned near impossible. Only extraordinary measures will suffice. And that’s what I’m all about these days, Sam. Atonement. You’ll see.”

For all his ogling and salacious remarks, Charlie was sounding more like a penitent than a whoremonger. What’s more, Sam liked him, just as he had when they had worked together before. Charlie wasn’t just fun, he was genuine. Flawed, yes, but he knew it, and even seemed determined to do something about it. That was one reason Sam decided then and there to turn off his cell phone, severing contact with Nanette. Anyone with this much need to make amends couldn’t possibly go astray, at least not that night.

Wrong again, as it turned out. And given Charlie’s statement, the murder now seemed like some sort of divine retribution for the old fellow’s fall from grace.

“How long did you stay at the Kasbar?” Assad asked.

“We bought drinks, but Charlie seemed kind of preoccupied. The place was pretty empty. The only time he really perked up was when the guy in the beard came in.”

“The same one? The employee Charlie talked to earlier?”

“Yes. He came to our table and whispered something in Charlie’s ear. Charlie nodded, like it was pretty much what he’d expected. Then we finished our drinks and left.”

“Did he say what the man had told him?”

“No. I figured it was none of my business.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Must have been about nine thirty.”

“Continue.”

From there Charlie had led them eastward down Sheikh Zayed Road, through a procession of joyless bars and discotheques with lots of chrome and black plastic, smoke machines and strobe lights, huge cover charges, strict dress codes, and glacial air-conditioning. The final such stop was only a few blocks down from the Shangri-La, a techno-rave dance club called Zinc in the Crowne Plaza, where an obnoxious deejay created his own tunes—if you could call them that—on a mixing board. The throbbing bass made Sam’s fillings ache. They left shortly after 2 a.m., and Sam figured Charlie was going to order the cab back to the Shangri- La. Instead he suddenly perked up, the liveliest he had been since dinner.

“Now for the main event,” Charlie said. “Our descent into the notorious fleshpots of Bur Dubai. Driver, take us to Bank Street. My young friend here needs an education.”

The cabbie nodded knowingly. Obviously it was a popular destination.

Bur Dubai was a revelation. Neither glitzy nor upscale, its sidewalks teemed with men, most of them dark faces