Vin Tanner turned into the alley and found it blocked with yet another crowd of people -no quiet bystanders this time as cat calls and jeers bounced off the walls and echoed with jarring regularity. Vin tucked the rifle between folds of loose clothing and hooked the cloak closer to his body with one finger. His free hand pushed a way through the crowd. He knew he was too late. Baine and the Frenchman would be long gone, but Tarak had said he’d stall them and now crowds of angry locals were at the secret meeting place as well. Some secret, the American thought. A face leered in front of him, a stream of abuse spewing from a toothless grin, before it was jostled backward and away. Vin ducked and stepped past another wildly gesturing Arab, was caught off-balance as the crowd moved around him and came up against the back of a man in a pale suit.
The voices erupted anew, this time in French and English – American English. The suited man turned his head to see who had bumped into him and, ignoring Tanner as just another over-excitable local, continued on with the heated discussion he was embroiled in with one of Renault’s gendarmes.
"Sir! I emphatically deny any wrongdoing on my part! I was merely taking a stroll through the streets of your lovely city…"
Vin groaned.
"Monsieur, you are not accused of anything… yet… we merely wish to ask you a few questions regarding your whereabouts last night."
The American scanned the crowd. He knew a few words of Arabic and the locals were not calling for his blood over something he may or may not have done the previous evening. Rather the more recent card game, in which he had won the entire pot, was the event that had stirred them, and their many relations it seemed, to demand justice be served. The laconic man had no doubt what sort of justice that meant and he doubted it had anything to do with judges in funny wigs and a court of law.
"I didn’t arrive in town until late and went immediately to my hotel room. Feel free to check the register. You’ll find my signature and the time of arrival there authenticated by the hotel keeper."
"I’m sure we will, Sir. However, we’d still like you to come down to the station…"
"I wouldn’t. The questions are asked with bullets," Vin whispered from behind, "and a German accent."
Only the stiffening of the American’s back showed he had heard the warning. "I have an appointment this afternoon that might take some time. Shall I drop by around six?"
"I don’t think you understand the situation, Sir…" the gendarme replied.
Tanner stopped listening and moved away to look for Tarak. He saw him huddled in a doorway talking to two of his brothers and a cousin. One of the men looked up at that moment and saw Vin. He nudged Tarak and pointed across the alley. The big man scowled, a few more words were exchanged between the brothers and Tarak despatched his youngest sibling and the cousin to fetch his American friend.
Vin tugged lightly on the American's coat and stepped around, allowing the man a glimpse of his face, at the same time keeping it guarded from the French policeman. Vin could hear Tarak’s brother, Abdullah, cursing the crowds in fluent Berber, as the man drew closer. The Texan began muttering something in Arabic just loud enough to be heard by one of the outraged locals that filled the alley. The stranger started yelling fresh accusations that rippled through the crowd and caused it to surge forward with affronted pride and insulted honour. The gendarmes were pushed away, helpless in the face of mass hysteria, as the American vanished beneath a wave of pissed off Moroccans. Vin felt himself be grabbed and dragged back to the shelter of the doorway and, at the last moment he in turn, closed his hand around the other American’s wrist and allowed Abdullah and his cousin to take them both to safety.
"Are you trying to get me killed?" the American man hissed. Ezra Standish had more or less been in similar situations in the past, but never had some would-be rescuer managed to get him so close to a brutal death. "What the hell did you say?"
The American and his rescuers were huddled in the same doorway that had held Tarak and his brothers just minutes before. It was close and hot, and rank with sweat and fear. One of the brothers had removed his cloak and thrown it over the American. It smelled of the desert and goats, and Ezra sniffed in disgust.
"You ain’t dead so quit complainin’," Vin replied without sympathy. "What happened?" he asked Tarak.
"Your transport left without you, but not without leaving something behind," Tarak began, patting the billfold hidden within his clothes. He started to retrieve it, but Vin shook his head and mouthed, ‘Later’. Tarak continued with his story. "The dust had barely settled when this man and another came running down the alley…"
"I wasn’t running," Standish interrupted. "Walking fast, perhaps, but not running."
Tarak glared at the man and started again. "Those others came running after them along with the gendarmes. The police were asking about the murder last night, but the others talked only of being cheated of hard-earned money."
"I don’t cheat!"
The outburst went ignored.
"The other man disappeared before the crowd reached them. You have to stop doing this, Tanner, risking your neck for ungrateful strangers…"
Vin put a hand on Tarak’s arm and brought the rifle out from beneath his cloak.
"Keep it," Tarak said, resigned to the fact that his young friend would do as he pleased no matter what he said. "You will have far more need of it than I."
"Who are you people and what have you dragged me into. I can get into enough trouble without your help, and out of it again. I had the situation perfectly in hand…"
Vin coughed, a short harsh sound that cut through the clamour in the street. "Do you know what they do to thieves in Morocco?"
One of the brothers drew a long knife from his belt and acted out cutting his hand off.
"I’m not a thief," Ezra denied, his voice not quite as confident as before. "It was the English fellow that started this. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Yeah, seems to be goin’ ‘round," Vin muttered.
There was a furious cry from the street as the mob realised their quarry had escaped. A dirty hand was clamped over Ezra’s mouth and he was pulled deeper into the doorway as the group broke up. The men waited in silence until the street was clear and then slid out from the doorway. The brother who had leant the cloak to the American said something and disappeared down the alley to the broader street beyond.
"Ishmael will keep watch. You can’t stay here," Tarak said.
"I have no choice," Vin countered. "Casablanca is wrapped up tighter than a babe in swaddlin’ right now, no one’s gettin’ out. Baine was my last chance."
"Maybe not," Tarak said, his hand once again going to the billfold.
Ishmael’s whistle interrupted the conversation and the men turned to see him waving them on. The street was clear for them to escape. Tarak started off. "Come," he said.
"I’ll be leaving you now. So nice to make your acquaintance…" Ezra started to pull the smelly cloak off.
"You sure are in a hurry to get your hands cut off," Vin stopped him. "Look, we both need to get out of here. Maybe we can help each other."
"As opposed to you helping me to an early grave?" Ezra sighed. There was no choice and he knew it. Either he let this Texan dressed up as an Arab help him or he’d wind up dead and handless in the dingy backstreets of Casablanca. "Alright. Let’s shake on it now while I still can. Ezra Standish, and you?"
Vin took the proffered hand. "Vin Tanner."
"So, why were the Germans chasing you, Dr. Jackson?" JD asked as the trio accepted drinks from the waiter of the Blue Parrot Café. They were sitting at the same table Larabee had departed from a short half hour earlier, before he’d decided to play rescue. The young photographer sipped at his warm beer and looked to the rescued man for a reply.
"Mistaken identity, I guess," was Nathan’s non-committal answer. "Casablanca is a dangerous town at the best of times, guess it was my turn to get caught up in the whirlwind."
Chris grunted. "Scapegoat, more like."
"You two known each other long? What about the other guy? Who was he?" JD had swapped the mug of ale in his hand for his camera and was busy checking the equipment.
Busy hands didn’t stop the flow of questions though and Chris raised his eyebrows at the garrulous young man.
"We haven’t ever met before," Nathan said. "But I’m sure as hell glad we met today." He raised his glass to his lips; the whisky burned his mouth. Nathan didn’t drink the stuff often, but he figured it was good to be alive, and the fiery trail the alcohol left in his throat after he swallowed only added to the ‘that was as close to death as he ever wanted to get’ sensation he was feeling.
Chris chuckled at that and raised his own glass in salute. The guy was luckier than he knew. Larabee wasn’t meant to be in Casablanca. He was meant to be back home enjoying the fruits of his labour, but recent events had conspired to bring him here instead. He’d had enough of wars, had plenty of money stashed away, and it was time for a well-earned vacation. Casablanca was a resting place until he could get himself together and let things lie awhile before trying again to get the hell out of Africa and back to the States.
"The other guy? He’s American too, isn’t he? Why was he dressed like that? I would never have guessed if he hadn’t spoken. You see that shot? Unbelievable!" JD continued.
Chris thought about Vin Tanner. He wouldn’t have guessed the man was American either and yet that was a Texan accent that came out of his mouth. Larabee was a hard man to fool. What sort of a man would break cover like that to save a stranger? Chris was certain Tanner must be hiding from something; the disguise was too good, too obviously apart of him to even be all disguise. Chris suspected the man must have strong ties to the Moroccans to fit in so easily. But what was he hiding from? The law or something else? And that shot? He agreed with Dunne. That shot was something else. The man was a mystery and Chris could feel curiosity growing inside him. He hadn’t cared enough to be curious about anything in years.
"Kid, you ask too many questions. This is Casablanca. You want answers you have to pay for them. You ask too many of the wrong kind of questions, you’ll be payin’ with your life."
Larabee’s flatly delivered words momentarily silenced the young photographer, but not with fear. "I survived Tangiers, I think I’ll be okay in Casablanca."
Chris shrugged. He could see Ferrari hovering again and had no desire to have their conversation overheard by the man. Nathan noticed the shift of attention from the photographer to the big man heading toward them and nudged Dunne with his foot. JD started to scowl. He was annoyed that the other men seemed to consider him a naïve greenhorn and nearly missed the slight nod from Jackson. He closed his mouth on the angry words and took another swallow of beer instead.
"Ah, gentlemen. I hear you’ve been in an altercation with the Germans. Nothing too lasting, I hope?" Ferrari rested his hand on the back of JD’s chair and leaned over the young man. "A photographer? How interesting. Perhaps I can interest you in a photographic assignment this evening? It is the grand re-opening of the Café Americain. A photographic capturing of the evening would be most auspicious."
"And profitable for you?" Larabee said, curious about the man’s motives and wondering why it mattered.
Ferrari straightened and spread his hands in front of him, palm upward. He was used to getting around the suspicion of others. In Casablanca, everyone was suspicious. "Perhaps for us all. You are all welcome to attend." He threw a brief glance at Nathan, still dusty and sweaty from his run-in with the Germans. "The dress code is, of course, suit and tie. The Café Americain is quite stylish and attracts a more high class clientele than this poor establishment." Ferrari gestured around the room.
Nathan’s sniff was audible. He didn’t care for the clientele of either club.
"I’ll have to check my diary…" Chris said, turning away as if bored with the conversation. In reality, he was. Larabee was a man who preferred to drink without the distraction of small talk.
Ferrari took the dismissal without rancour. Christopher Larabee was an arrogant man, but not one to be crossed and the saloon-keeper had not reached his age and position by putting himself on the wrong side of danger. He bowed to the other men at the table and retreated to engage a new face in conversation. An Englishman, he guessed, and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.
"I have a dinner jacket," JD announced, looking hopefully at Larabee and Jackson. And I could do with the money, he thought.
"Do you make a habit of this?" Ezra Standish closed the door to his hotel room. The walk back to its relative safety had been made in near silence. He’d attempted several times to talk to Tanner, but the few words he’d managed to pry out of the man had not been in English and had sounded rather like insults. Standish was a man of the world and he recognised an insult when he heard one, no matter what the language used.
"Habit of what?" Vin replied, moving straight to the shuttered windows and opening the slats with one finger.
"Oh, I don’t know. Your amazing conversational skills, the way you slink through the streets like an invisible wraith muttering Arabic curses, or perhaps it’s that awful habit of causing riots and rescuing strangers from the long arm of the law?"
Vin’s laugh was quiet; barely more than a ripple in the air, but Ezra heard it and felt some of the tension leave him. He didn’t like to admit it, but the serious young man concerned him greatly. The feeling that he’d jumped right out of the frying pan and into the fire had increased with every step. The gambler always worked alone and here he was, only one day into Casablanca and he had a partner. A complete stranger who, by his furtiveness and urgent desire to get off the street, was apparently in more trouble than Ezra himself and yet had taken a chance on getting the gambler out of the sticky situation he’d found himself in. Ezra was concerned and confused.
"Just started today," Vin answered. It didn’t appear that anyone was watching from the street. Vin left the slats open and turned to Standish, grinning at the cocked eyebrow. "Rescuin’ folk, that is. You’re my second today."
"Oh?"
Vin walked over to the small cocktail bar and began helping himself to a drink. "Yeah, the first guy to get questioned about the murder nearly got shot before he could answer."
"How do you know he didn’t do it? For that matter, how do you know I didn’t do it?"
Vin shrugged. "Hunch?" And then countered with, "Why did you agree to stick with me? You don’t know me from a hill of beans. Why come back here to your room? You could have easily given me the slip any time."
"Touché, my friend." Ezra took the brandy bottle from Vin’s hand and filled a glass for himself. "You have a somewhat better grasp of the local language than I," he acknowledged with a small wave of his hand. "And perhaps more of an affinity with the locals… an ability to mingle without undue notice… than I could hope to pull off on my own."
"Yer last partner left you to take the heat, didn’t he?"
"He wasn’t my partner and one can’t always judge the worth of a man by looks and speech alone, though I’m not usually so wrong…" Ezra paused, thinking about the man who had so easily, it seemed, got the drop on him. It was highly unusual for Ezra Standish to be wrong when it came to judging another man’s character. Ezra was a keen observer and manipulator of human nature. To be so taken in by a man Ezra had summed up as a blustering, shallow Englishman; a man who was sodden with gin at any hour of the day and yet always amusing and ready for adventure… Perhaps the man was unaware of what had transpired. He would have been scared, surely. And yet… Ezra shook his head. He was a fool to trust the young man, just like he’d be a fool to trust this one – and he wouldn’t, not just yet. Ezra glanced back to where Vin Tanner now stood disrobing in the corner.
"What are you doing?"
"Sheddin’ a few layers. These are my travellin’ clothes. Ain’t travellin’ today, don’t need all of ‘em on."
"What do we do now?"
Vin dropped a cloth satchel, hidden under his overshirt, to the floor. He was frowning and thinking hard. "Sit tight, I guess. At least, ‘till after dark." He glanced back in the direction of the window. It was nearing dusk. He’d have time to hole up a while and get some rest. "Then I’ll take a look around. See what else is happenin’, make a few visits."
"With so many friends here why would you want to leave?" Ezra asked.
"They done enough already. I had someone else in mind."
Vin Tanner had waited until after full dark before venturing back out onto the streets. Standish was still fiddling with his tie and adjusting cuffs when he’d left. Tanner waited in the shadows for the gambler to make his own exit. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the glib Southerner, he did – to a small degree – but he needed to see if anyone was interested in the man’s movements or the hotel room once it had been vacated. Standish had appeared a short time later in a brief flood of light as the hotel door opened and closed. He’d lit a cigarette on the top step before making his way down the street. No one came. Vin had waited a few minutes longer then followed him.
Café Americain was two doors down. Vin arrived just in time to see Ezra disappear behind the grand doors of the once exclusive saloon. Not a shadow seemed out of place and as the searchlights lit the street and building facades in a regular sweep, Tanner continued on his way. He’d told Standish he wasn’t meeting up with his regular contacts, but that was exactly who he needed to speak with. Tarak would be waiting for him on the other side of town. Vin needed to get to him and then go speak to Chris Larabee. He had a feeling the other American would figure somewhere in his near future, but he had to see what Tarak had for him first.
Nathan Jackson had one dinner jacket. It was a little thin around the collar, almost threadbare on the elbows and past its fashion prime, but this was Africa in the 1940’s and there were more important things in the world than one man’s jacket. War was perched on the doorstep and missionaries didn’t often have need for formal dinner attire. That he had one at all was a quirk of fate. The doctor before him had often attended tea-parties and dinners amongst the European set of Casablanca society in a bid to raise money for the poor. He’d been quite the sweet talker and under his direction the mission had almost prospered.
When the doctor had died suddenly – such event leading to Nathan’s arrival – his belongings had gone unclaimed and then given to the new doctor. Nathan had still to discover how old Dr. Mack had died and had spent many a free moment looking through the meagre trunk of belongings he had inherited. Not much to show for a man’s life work. Not much to show for his standing in the community. Everyone had known Mack and no one had known Mack. The man was a mystery.
Along with the one and only well-worn dinner jacket – only slightly too tight across the shoulders of its new owner – was a bundle of faded photographs; a youngish couple with two children, the same couple – older and sadder – with only one child, the father and his son alone – pale, strained faces, stiff and uncomfortable poses. Separate and much older than the photographs was a daguerreotype of a woman in full-skirted splendour – the doctor’s mother though none were now left alive who knew or cared and Nathan had only guessed at the woman’s identity. There was something about the tilt of the head and the expression in the eyes, hard, unyielding and full of pain. Nathan had wondered what had happened to the boy. The rest of the belongings; mismatched clothes, shoes and a tarnished fob watch had yielded few clues to the man who had owned them and Nathan left them all, carefully packed in the trunk, beneath his bed should anyone show up who had a better claim than he.
Nights were generally cool and clear in Morocco, most of the heat having soaked back into the ground waiting for a new day and a new sun to dance with. Nathan’s shirt still clung to his back, damp with sweat. It might not be quite as hot as during the daylight hours but the American had yet to fully let go of the tension those hours had caused him. He’d come close to dying that day. It wasn’t something easily pushed aside. He pulled on the cuffs of his jacket and straightened his tie before taking the final step up to the front door of the Café Americain. It was his first visit to the club and he had the feeling it wouldn’t be his last. Something had changed today, some great occurrence that he felt obliged to see through to the end, and it had to do with Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner. His nerves twisted and he grimaced with the sharpness of the sudden pain even as he looked over his shoulder. Tanner had vanished into thin air like a ghost, and just like a ghost, Nathan kept feeling the man’s unseen presence.
Casablanca had got downright spooky of late.
Nathan gave himself a mental shake and opened the door. Ghosts be damned, he needed a drink.
Chris Larabee sat, elbows to the bar, at the far end of the room. An opened bottle of whisky and a cut-crystal ashtray were placed beside him as he alternately drank and smoked. He looked lean and dangerous. Nathan had figured out that he was some type of mercenary. Not the type of man the doctor would usually befriend, but he hadn’t had much choice in the matter earlier and now he was glad for it. He’d caught more than a glimpse of the man behind the icy glare and recognised a depth most others would never see. Besides, having Larabee for a friend was far more preferable than not.
Jackson walked across the room, skirting hovering waiters and mingling patrons with a polite nod. Chris saw him coming and pushed out the empty stool beside him with one foot.
"You made it?" Nathan said. "Wasn’t sure you’d show. Wasn’t sure I’d show for that matter."
Chris shrugged and gestured to the bartender for another glass. "Seemed like the place to be," he replied, casting a slow glance across the room. Ferrari, the new owner of the saloon, was flitting from table to table like a butterfly in a field of wildflowers, or a fly from dung heap to dung heap, Chris thought caustically. "Have a drink," he added as an extra glass finally arrived. "You been here before, Nathan?"
"No, but I heard it was run by an American." Nathan poured himself a drink and sipped it. He could feel waves of tension coming off the man beside him and wondered what the cause could be. Everything seemed quiet enough, if one didn’t count the big band in the corner belting out American show tunes, and certainly no one was coming near this end of the bar.
Chris was nodding. "Rick Baine. He’s gone."
"Dead?" Nathan asked. It seemed the commonest way of being gone lately.
"No…" Chris drawled his words out slow and smooth, bringing his cigarette to his mouth, "Well, not yet." Then he froze, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a familiar face in the mirrored wall behind the bar.
Nathan didn’t see the shutter fall down over the mercenary’s features and would have been surprised to learn that the vaguely dangerous expression he’d grown accustomed to was mild compared to the almost malevolent cast now apparent. Larabee turned on his stool and smiled. Nathan caught the change and turned to follow the other man’s gaze. Ferrari was making his way through the tables toward them, accompanied by a young man urbane in manner and with a ready glinting smile.
"Well, well, well…" Chris muttered, standing as the two men approached.
"Mr. Larabee," Ferrari began. "I have someone I’d like you to meet. Another American." He paused to usher the man closer and Nathan noticed a slight paling in the newcomer’s expression. "Chris Larabee, this is…"
"Ezra Standish," Chris finished for him, ignoring everyone else for the moment and focussing on Standish.
"You know each other?" Ferrari asked, wondering who Standish was and re-evaluating his judgement of the man. If he was a friend of Larabee’s then he couldn’t be the innocent traveller he had professed to be just minutes earlier.
"Why, yes. We do at that, Monsieur Ferrari. Old acquaintances, you could say." Ezra offered his hand to Larabee and then withdrew it as the gesture was rebuffed with a quirk of the other man’s eyebrow. "Imagine my surprise when I heard the famous Chris Larabee was in Casablanca."
"I’m surprised you stayed," Chris countered.
Ezra grinned. "No sooner had I heard, than here you were…"
"No time for graceful retreats?"
"No, but I do have all the exits marked out," Ezra replied. It had been awhile since he’d seen the mercenary – not long enough.
"Now that doesn’t surprise me."
The clink of a glass hitting the bar came from behind Chris and Nathan as the bartender pre-empted any invitation for the third man to join the small, but growing group.
"Don’t mind if I do," Ezra accepted and the bartender filled the new glass.
Chris looked at the glass and then at Standish. "Why don’t you join us," Chris invited, more than a little sarcasm dripping from each word. "Then tell me what the hell you’re doing here?"
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