flowered.
“What was I supposed to think when you didn’t show up?”
“That we were caught in a sandstorm near the Ethiopian border. Maybe a swim will help blow the sand out of my sinuses.”
“What’s that?” Wide-eyed, Barbara was staring at Fletch’s lower stomach.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. What is it?”
“A wound, Barbara. A trauma. Vulgarly described as a blow below the belt.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. Where did that come from?”
“You belted me.”
“I did not.”
“No one else did. Ever.”
“Not like that.”
“Like that.”
“I never did.”
“Oh, stow it. You coming back to the pool for a swim?”
“I’ll take a shower.”
“Okay. I’ll go for a swim. Then play in the sandbox for a while.” Fletch sneezed. “When I come back, we can think about what we do next.”
“If you don’t make it,” Barbara said, “telephone.”
“So,” Barbara said.
“So,” Fletch said.
They had ordered breakfast on the Lord Delamere Terrace.
“Here we are in Nairobi.”
“So we are.”
“Having a honeymoon at last.”
“And a night’s sleep.” Across Harry Thuku Road, Nairobi University was awake with students coming and going in the bright sunlight.
“A nice, long night. Ten hours to sleep, and five hours to eat and play.”
“That much?”
“By my clock.”
“I feel like a new man.” Fletch began to look through
“This morning I’m glad I married you.” Under the table, Barbara’s leg went against his.
“Likewise.”
“I was afraid that thing on your stomach would hurt.”
“It doesn’t. It never did. Just looks ugly.”
“I don’t know. I think it looks sort of erotic.”
“One is apt to think well of one’s own work.”
“I didn’t do that to you.”
“Oh.”
“I know I didn’t. You must have bumped into something.”
“Okay.”
“It looks sort of like a codpiece pulled aside. A jockstrap or something, you know?”
“Maybe you ought to go into the business of Designer Bruises.”
“Is that why hitting boxers below the belt is considered a no-no?”
“Their trainers haven’t your sense of what’s sexy, I guess.”
“I didn’t know men are so sensitive there.”
“If you cut us, do we not bleed?”
Their fruit was served.
“There’s nothing in this morning’s newspaper about the murder at the airport,” Fletch said after the waiter left.
“Did you tell Carr about it?”
“Yes.” The mashed rhubarb was sweetened exactly right.
“What did he say about it?”
“He agrees I have a problem. A ‘box of rocks.’”
“Did he understand why you didn’t come forward?”
“Oh, yes. I can’t spend my life in Kenya reviewing their suspects, one by one.”
“Are you just going to forget about the murder?”
“I can’t. Suppose they decide to hang the wrong sack?”
“Can’t you just leave a description with the police?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Middle-aged white man with brown hair and a moustache. Kenya probably has more men fitting that description than they have zebras. They’d have me flying halfway around the world and back again every week. Which I can’t afford. Which Kenya probably can’t afford. So I suspect they’d ask me to stay here, in voices sweet or stern. Which I also can’t afford. Carr had no suggestions.”
“Speaking of
“I’ve already thought of it.”
“Your father doesn’t seem to be Nairobi’s greeter, official or unofficial. This is the third day we’ve been here, and no Fletcher senior has showed up pulling a welcome wagon.”
“I’ve noticed. There was a message from him, however. While we were out at Thika.”
“Yes. Saying he’d be back.”
“He must have had a flat tire.”
“I think you’d better check with the hotel desk, to make sure our bills are being paid.”
“I thought we’d have breakfast first.”
“I doubt we’ll get much of our money back from the ski lodge in Colorado. We don’t deserve much back.”
“They must be used to canceled honeymoons.”
All sorts of interesting traffic was going by on Harry Thuku Road. Besides the cars, taxis, trucks usual to any city, there were
“So what will we do today?” Barbara asked. “Presuming we don’t have to find a cheaper hotel.”
Their eggs, bacon, and toast were served.
“I suppose I could go looking for my father. He must be here, somewhere. I am ‘mildly curious.’”
“A lady at the pool yesterday told me about seeing some wonderful dancers, what did she call them? Bomas. The Bomas Harambee Dancers. Something like that. About ten kilometers from here. She said they tell this wonderful story in dance about an evil spirit who takes over a young girl while she and her husband are traveling, asleep in the bush. So the young husband goes and hires a witch doctor to rid his wife of the evil spirit. The doctor comes and traces the evil spirit away from the girl. But every time he gets close to the spirit, the spirit scares the followers of the witch doctor and runs away. The whole story is told in dance. I might like to see that this afternoon.”
Fletch was watching Juma striding down the street toward them.
“And would you believe there’s a game park just outside Nairobi that’s something like forty-seven square
