'Thank you, sir. We must rid the city of the abomination. Life is not good, this way.' The hunchback stopped before the gate, made a sharp turn on Christian Quarter Street, and disappeared into the darkness.
Flat eyes, thought the Chinaman, continuing east on David Street, then hooking north and taking the Souq Khan e-Zeit toward the Damascus Gate. A crazy grin. A redheaded whore. Probably another dead end.
The souq had been watered before closing, the cobblestones still wet and glowing in the bands of moonlight that seeped between the arches. The market street was deserted, save for Border Patrolmen and soldiers, giving way to noise and lights as he approached the Damascus Gate. He walked past the coffee-houses, ignoring the revelry and fanning away cigarette smoke, exited gratefully into the cool night air.
The sky was a starlit dome, as black as mourning cloth. He flexed his muscles, cracked his knuckles, and began circulating among the tents of the Slave Market, buying a soda at one and standing at the back drinking it, watching a European-looking girl do a clumsy belly dance. Flat eyes, a crazy grin. The hunchback was probably a habitual liar, so maybe it was a just another con-false cooperation aimed at weaseling out of a larceny bust. Or maybe not. Maybe he had put out the word because he wanted to talk.
Still, the time frame made sense: a week between murders, the killing on Thursday night, the dumping Friday morning. If Red Amira had been tagged as number three, her escape helped explain why the time lapse since Juliet. Maybe this guy had some sort of schedule that allowed him out only on Thursday and Friday.
On the other hand, the red hair didn't match. Maybe the whole story was bullshit.
He took a big gulp of soda, planned his next moves: Check out this Red Amira-too late for that right now. Examine the spot where the American had propositioned her, see if there was a place for someone to hide, if there was room to conceal a car. Also a daylight job.
If he found anything interesting, he'd call Dani tomorrow night. He had nothing yet that justified disturbing the guy's Shabbat.
The bellydancer shook her cymbals and ground her abdomen; pooshtakim hooted and cheered. Bland, appraised the Chinaman, definitely European, a college girl picking up extra shekels. No zest, too skinny to make it work-you could see her ribs when she undulated. He left the tent, saw Charlie Khazak standing outside his pleasure palace, sucking on a cigarette and wearing a snot-green shirt that seemed to glow in the dark. The shithead hadn't forgotten their little heel-on-instep dance. When he saw who was looking at him, he threw away the smoke and backed into the tent, was gone when the Chinaman got there. Forty minutes later, he showed up, only to find the Chinaman stepping out of the shadows, using a shishlik skewer for a toothpick, yawning like some giant yellow cat.
'Shabbat shalom, Charlie.'
'Shabbat shalom. I've been asking around for you, trying to help out.'
'Gee,' said the Chinaman, 'I'm really touched.'
'I'm serious, Lee. This murder shit is bad for all of us. Bad atmosphere, people staying home.'
'How sad.' The Chinaman broke the skewer with his teeth, began chewing the wood, swallowing it.
Charlie stared at him. 'Want some dinner? On me.'
'Nah, already had some. On you.' The Chinaman smiled, pulled eight more skewers out of his pocket, and let them drop to the dirt. He stretched and yawned again, cracked giant knuckles. More than a cat, Charlie decided. Fucking slant-eyed tiger, he should be caged.
'So,' said the detective, 'business stinks. What a pity.
Who knows, you might have to turn to honest labor.' He'd been hearing the same tales of woe from other pimps and dealers. Since the papers had started pumping the Butcher story, there'd been a fifty percent slowdown on the Green Line. worse in the small pockets of iniquity that peppered the Muslim Quarter-sin-holes deep within the core of the Old City surrounded by a maze of narrow, dead-black streets, nameless alleys that went nowhere. You had to want something very badly to go there. The hint of a scare and the places shut down completely. All the whores were kicking about working with strangers, girls on the border staying off the streets, opting, temporarily, for the comforts of hearth and home. The pimps expending more effort to keep them in line. receiving less reward for their efforts.
'Everything stinks,' said Charlie, lighting a cigarette. 'I should move to America-got a cousin in New York, drives
'Do it. I'll pay for your ticket.'
The big screen TV was turned up loud; from behind the flaps came the sound of squealing tires.
'What's on tonight?'
'French Connection.'
'Old,' said the Chinaman. 'Got to be? what? Fifteen, twenty years old?'
'A classic, Lee. They love the car chases.'
'Then how come so few of them are watching? Your man behind the bar told me you had a newer one scheduled. Friday the Thirteenth, lots of knives and blood.'
'Wrong time, wrong place,' said Charlie, looking miserable.
'A temporary attack of good taste?' The Chinaman smiled. 'Cheer up. It'll pass. Tell me, Rabbi Khazak, what do you know about a whore named Amira Nasser?'
'She the latest?'
'Just answer.'
'Brunette, cute, big tits.'
'I thought she was a redhead.'
Charlie thought for a moment. 'Maybe. Yeah, I've seen her with red hair-but that's a wig. Her natural color is dark.'
