'She didn't say.' She didn't look?'
'She may have-she didn't tell me.'
'You're sure of that?'
'Yes, sir. If I knew, I would certainly tell you.'
'What was wrong with his eyes?'
Little Hook painted in the air, again, caressed his hump. 'She said they were flat eyes, very flat. Mad. And a strange smile. very wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer.'
'What made it a killer's grin.'
The hunchback's head pushed forward and bobbed, like that of a turkey pecking at corn. 'Not a happy grin, very crazy.'
'She told you that.'
'Yes.'
'But she didn't tell you which way he walked?'
'No, sir, I-'
'That's enough whining.' The Chinaman pressed him for more: physical description, nationality, clothing, asking again what had been crazy about the eyes, wrong with the grin. He got nothing, which was no surprise. The pimp hadn't seen the man, had heard everything secondhand from his girl.
'If I could tell you more, I certainly would, sir.'
'You're a fine upstanding citizen.'
'Very surely, sir. I want dearly to cooperate. I sent out the word so you would find me. Truly.'
The Chinaman looked down at him, thought: The little bastard looks pretty crazy himself, waving his arms, rubbing that hump like he's masturbating.
'I'm going to talk to the girl myself, Gadallah. Where is she?'
Ibn Hamdeh shrugged expansively. 'Ran away, sir. Maybe to Amman.'
'What's her name?'
'Red Amira.'
'Full name.'
'Amira Nasser, of the red lips and the red hair.'
Not physically similar to the first two victims. The Chinaman felt his enthusiasm waning. 'When did you see her last?'
'The night she saw Flat Eyes. She packed her bag and was gone.'
'Wednesday night.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And you just let her go?'
'I am a friend, not a slavemaster.'
'A real pal.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Where does her family live?'
'I don't know, sir.'
'You said Amman. Why there?'
'Amman is a beautiful city.'
The Chinaman frowned skeptically, raised a fist. Ibn Hamdeh flashed stainless steel.
'Allah's truth, sir! She worked for me for two months, was productive, quiet. That's all I know.'
Two months-a short shift. It jibed with what he'd been told about Ibn Hamdeh. The hunchback was small- time all ihe way, not even close to a professional flesh peddler. He promised novice whores protection and lodgings in return for a percentage of their earnings but couldn't hold on to them for very long. When they found out how little he delivered, they abandoned him for sturdier roosters. The Chinaman pressed him a while longer, showed him pictures of both victims and got negative replies, wrote down a general physical description of Amira Nasser, and wondered if he'd see her soon, cut open and shampooed and wrapped in white sheeting.
'May I go now, sir?'
'No. What's your address?' Ibn Hamdeh told him the number of a hole in an alley off Aqabat el Mawlawiyeh, and the Chinaman wrote it down and radioed Headquarters for verification, requesting simultaneous record checks on both the hunchback and Amira. Ibn Hamdeh waited nervously for the data to come in, tapping his feet and caressing his deformity. When the radio spat back an answer, the address was correct. Ibn Hamdeh had been busted a year ago for pickpocketing, let off with probation, nothing violent in his file. Nothing at all on any Amira Nasser.
The Chinaman gave Ibn Hamdeh a business card, told him to call him if he heard anything more about the flat-eyed man, pointed him toward the Jaffa Gate, and ordered him to get lost.
