tobacco smoke filtered through rosewater narghilas. Scratchy recordings of finger cymbals and whining violins, the same love song played for an hour-what use was all that romance, with no women around? Maybe they were ail queer-the way they sucked on their narghilas, you could hear the gurgle.
Charlie Khazak paid the driver. Two boys materialized from behind the truck and started unloading the melons, carrying five, six at a time, back to the tent. Hot night like this, they'd sell faster than they came in.
The Chinaman stretched impatiently, walked over to Charlie, and said, 'Come on.'
'Patience.' Charlie smiled and turned back to the Arab, who was counting his money with a tongue- moistened finger. Charlie smiled again, a vulture smile on a vulture face. Skinny, dark. Pocked, sunken cheeks, Iraqi beak nose, and one dark line of eyebrow. Bald on top with pointy sideburns and a long fringe of hair on the sides that ran over onto his collar. A purple and green paisley shirt with balloon sleeves, tight black pants, needle-toed patent-leather shoes. A pooshtak all grown up. The guy's father had been a rabbi in Baghdad; the wages of righteousness, a punk son.
'Patience, nothing,' said the Chinaman and put his hand heavily on Charlie's shoulder. All bones. One good squeeze and the guy would be out of commission.
He exerted the tiniest bit of pressure and Charlie said goodbye to the Arab.
The two of them walked back to the tent, past the tables with pooshtakim greeting Charlie as if he were some sort of pop star, to the rear, where shishlik and skimpy hamburgers sizzled on charcoal grills and a sleepy- looking bartender filled orders behind a makeshift bar of melon cartons piled one on top of the other. Charlie grabbed a bottle of Coke from the ice bucket and offered it to the Chinaman, who took it and dropped it back in the bucket. Charlie shrugged, and the Chinaman motioned him into a dark corner next to a pyramid of melons, away from the eyes of the others.
'Look at this,' he said, pulling out the picture. 'Know her?'
Charlie took the photo, furrowed his forehead so that the single eyebrow dipped in the center.
'Cute. Is she sleeping or dead?'
'Ever sell her?'
'Me?' Charlie feigned hurt feelings. 'I'm a restaurateur, not a flesh peddler.'
A roar of approval rose from the crowd at the tables. Bruce Lee had just finished vanquishing a small army of bad guys.
'The mysteries of the Orient,' said Charlie, watching the film. 'Right up your alley.'
'Cut the shit. I'm tired.'
Something in the detective's voice wiped the smile off
Charlie's face. Handing the photo back, he said: 'Don't know her.'
'Ever seen her around?'
The faintest hesitation, but the Chinaman picked up on it.
'No.'
The Chinaman inched closer to Charlie, so that they could smell each other. 'If you're holding out on me, I'll find out, shmuck. And I'll come back and jam one of those melons up your ass.'
The bartender looked up. Smiling faintly, enjoying the sight of the boss being bossed.
Charlie put his hands on his hips. Raised his voice for the benefit of the bartender: 'Get the hell out of here, Lee. I'm busy.'
The Chinaman lifted a melon from the pyramid, knocked on it as if testing for freshness, then let it roll off his palm and fall to the ground. The melon landed with a dull thud and exploded, pink pulp and juice splattering in the dust. The barman looked up, remained in his place. No one else seemed to have noticed. All locked in on Bruce.
'Oops.' The Chinaman smiled.
Charlie started to protest, but before he could say anything the Chinaman placed his right boot heel on the tent-keeper's right instep, leaned in, and put a little weight on it. Charlie's eyes opened wide with pain.
'What the-' he said, then forced himself to smile. The grand-daddy pooshiak, toughing it out, not wanting to look like a pussy in front of his fans. Not that they had eyes for anyone but Bruce.
'Tell me what you know.' The Chinaman smiled back.
'Off my foot, you baboon.'
The Chinaman continued smiling. Pressed down harder and talked nonchalantly, as if the two of them were buddies. Having a chat about sports or something.
'Listen, Adon Khazak,' he said, 'I've no interest in finding out what naughtiness you've been up to. Tonight.' More pressure. 'Just tell me about this girl.'
Charlie gasped and the bartender came closer, bottle of Goldstar in one hand. 'Charlie-'
'Get the hell out of here, stupid! Do your job!'
The bartender cursed under his breath, went back to washing glasses.
'Like I told you,' Charlie said between his teeth. Sweat ran down his nose, beading at the tip of the beak, rolling off into the dirt. 'I don't know her. Now get the hell off my foot before you break something.'
'You've seen her around.'
'What of it? She's a face, a nothing.'
