Nathan strode straight through the Café, ignoring the police and Wallace Andersen, and out the front door. A small group of children were gathered straining their necks to see what they could before the door closed again. Nathan paused there, surrounded by the gawking children, and stared across the road to where Larabee, Dunne and another man were apparently deep in conversation. Just off to the side of them and partially hidden by an overflowing barrow of sandals was Vin Tanner. Nathan swore softly as he realised that the men would be in full view from the second storey window of Ferrari’s apartment. Chris looked up then and Nathan nodded his head off to the right. Larabee’s return acknowledgment was barely noticeable, but as the doctor pushed past the children and began walking down the streets, he noticed the mercenary begin to move as well.
In the café, a single curtain flicked open and a pale face stared through dusty glass. There was a sharp intake of breath, a soft exclamation of sound, a furious whispered denial. Andersen watched as the sandal vendor across the way moved his barrow down the street calling out the bargain of his wares. There was movement in the shadowed doorway opposite, a ghost hovered there, glaring, daring with ice cold daggers. Andersen stopped breathing, his mouth forming a silent, no.
He was dead!
He was alive!
The shadows broke apart, moving, swirling, coming for him. Andersen felt cold and shivery. His vision dimmed and suddenly all that was holding him up was the curtain gripped in his sweat-slick hand. Panic welled up until he thought he would choke… and then someone was touching his shoulder, calling his name. His vision cleared, he could breathe. The shadow of the ghost was gone.
"M’siur Andersen? Are you all right?" The gendarme guided the American to a chair. "Perhaps it is the heat?" he suggested. "We’ve finished up here for now, Monsieur. There was nothing here, nothing at all." He crouched down beside the man, concerned. Andersen look scared. "I’ll get you a glass of water before we go, yes?" The gendarme jumped to his feet and started moving back to the bar. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost…"
Chris saw Nathan come out of the café and gave him a casual glance. The doctor looked worried about something and gestured for Larabee to follow him away from the café. Larabee nodded back then turned to JD. "Stay here and look at sandals with Vin. We’ll be back."
"Yes, Sir," JD replied. After being stuck with breakfast duty earlier he suspected the older men would try and shake him loose, but they hadn’t so far and JD was determined they wouldn’t. He took a step closer to the barrow and pretended to look at the sandals. They looked comfortable enough, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be game to wear a pair.
Chris clapped Wilmington on the shoulder. "Someone I want you meet," he said and began walking.
Buck fell into step beside him. "You’re just a bundle of surprises this morning, Chris. All these new friends. It just isn’t like you. What happened to lone wolf ‘I don’t need your fucking help’ Larabee?"
"Things change," Chris replied with a shrug. "Maybe I’m changing too."
"You? I wouldn’t have thought it possible, old friend. Never in a million years, not if my life depended on it… and it has…" Buck grew serious for a moment and his voice dropped to a low murmur. "What happened in Tobruk, Chris? You got out okay? You’re here so I guess you…"
Chris stopped walking and faced his old friend, one hand on the man’s chest. "I don’t want to talk about it, Buck, and I don’t want you to talk about it, got it?" The two men stared at each other until Buck nodded. "Good, we got that straight at least," Chris mumbled. "Come on… down here."
Chris led Buck down a narrow alley. He could just see Nathan’s dark hair above a line of wet washing strung across the cobbled road. The two men pushed damp sheets aside and joined Jackson on the other side.
Chris made the introductions. "Nathan, this is Buck Wilmington, old friend of mine. Buck this is Nathan Jackson, Dr. Nathan Jackson, new friend of mine."
Buck and Nathan shook hands. "Let’s keep walking," Nathan said. The three men strolled down the alley as Nathan filled them in on what had transpired that morning. "Ferrari is dead," he said straight off, not knowing any other way to say it. "Murdered, same as Tarak. Happened sometime before dawn, probably about the same time we were down town."
"You say the same as Tarak? Do you mean it’s the same guy killed both of them?" Chris asked.
"I’m sure of it," Nathan replied.
"How well did we know the dead guys?" Buck queried. Chris had mentioned someone had stolen important documents that may or may not be connected to the Allied Forces war effort, and that this someone was prepared to kill, but he’d left out the bit about someone having already killed. It dawned on Buck that Chris had left a lot out of the story he’d told his friend. "When were you going to tell me we even had dead guys?"
"Until just now I didn’t know we had more than one," Chris said. "Tarak had papers for Vin, but was murdered and robbed before Vin could get to him."
"That was last night," Nathan added. "This morning, Ferrari had two visitors, Americans. They found his body and called the police who called me to issue a death certificate."
Chris was nodding. "Orrin Travis and Wallace Andersen."
"You know them?" Nathan asked, surprised.
"No, but Vin does. He saw them talking to the police outside the Blue Parrot."
"And Travis saw all of you out on the street just then. I don’t know what sort of trouble Vin’s in, but I swear Travis was staring hard enough out that damn window to melt the glass. He recognised him for sure."
"I’m confused. Who the hell are Travis and Andersen?" Buck said.
The men had stopped walking and now stood at the top of a steep staircase leading down to yet more alleys. A boy skipped below them twirling a rickety hoop with a stick.
"They’re OSS," Chris said. "So’s Vin."
"You’re kidding?" Buck folded his arms and leaned back against the stairwell. "You’re not kidding?"
"When did you find this out?" Nathan asked, thinking that explained the watchfulness he’d noticed in both Vin and Orrin Travis.
"Just after JD came by my hotel room to tell me he had a murderer out to get him. JD knows Travis too."
The other two men were surprise. "The kid has a murderer after him?" Buck asked.
"And the murderer?" Nathan was mystified. Just two days ago he was a poor doctor helping poor people. He knew what he was doing, knew how to do it; knew when to do it. Now he was floundering, way out of his depth, slap bang in the middle of international intrigue and murder.
"JD knows him too, some kind of international assassin."
"This just keep on getting better and better," Buck commented. "JD’s not a spy too is he? He doesn’t look the type, a little tender around the edges."
Chris shook his head. "No. JD’s just a guy with a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on how you look at it. Vin’s almost certain the guy after JD is the same one who killed Tarak and, if he killed Ferrari, and the OSS are involved that means we’ve stumbled right into the middle of…"
"A big stinkin’ pile of shit," Buck finished for him.
"That about covers it," Chris agreed, grinning. "That’s when I thought of you, Buck. Thought we might need some help with the shovelling."
"Oh, thanks, pard. You’re all heart," Buck grumbled, wishing he were still back in Lolita’s bedroom.
I know someone who might be handy to have around too. His name’s Josiah Sanchez. Good guy to have on our side," Nathan offered.
Chris grasped Nathan’s arm. "Talk to him. We’ll be spread pretty thin on this so we’ll probably need the help. With Standish that’ll make seven of us."
"Standish?" Seemed Chris had a whole pile of friends Buck didn’t know about.
"Someone I know from before," Chris said, starting to move back along the alley.
"There’s one more thing," Nathan called. He dropped his voice as Chris and Buck turned back to him. "How does Vin know about the murderer?"
Davis McCluskey a.k.a. Davie Boy a.k.a Mack the Knife sat in the glow of a single lamp in his dim hotel room. Further illumination would display a sumptuous room, a decadent room with lace curtains that overflowed deeply recessed windows, a love seat covered in deep red velvet and a chandelier that hung from the ceiling in crystal rain drops that glittered brightly and sent rainbows of colour cascading along the walls. McCluskey wasn’t interested in the potential of the room or in the beauty hidden behind the shadows, only in the papers spread across the writing table in front of him and enough light to read them by.
McCluskey had learnt, way back when he was still the darling boy of MI5, that any situation could be twisted to his advantage if only he took the time to sit and think things out, make plans, fix strategies. It was how he’d survived being caught out as a double-agent, how he’d finally discovered who had betrayed him and how he’d managed not only to carve out his revenge, literally speaking, but build up a brand new career as well.
His current assignment - he still thought in spy-terms - would push his reputation to a new lucrative high. Already the Germans had contacted him for a high-profile hit which, if successful, could ensure a Third Reich victory somewhat sooner than later… and McCluskey was always successful. Or so he’d thought.
Reading over the travel papers he’d taken from Tarak’s body, he frowned as his eyes locked once more on the name they were made out to. The name of his betrayer, a man he’d taken care of, permanently, last month and yet… the papers were dated the day previous. It seemed that perhaps McCluskey wasn’t always successful after all. That or the papers were made out to a ghost. He sighed and refolded the papers, inserting them back into the bloodstained billfold. McCluskey didn’t believe in ghosts. It was time to renew a few contacts and tie up loose ends. He figured that if he was prepared he could take care of his assignment, the nosy photographer and the ghost all in one night, and board the fishing trawler he’d hired to take him out of Casablanca in the morning as planned.
The only problem he could foresee was who to take care of first. He tucked the telegram announcing the arrival of the two OSS agents that morning into the billfold with the transit papers and pushed back his chair. Time for Mack the Knife to get on with business.
Orrin Travis strode down the back stairs from the apartment to the Blue Parrot café. Andersen was sitting at a table sweating over a glass of water and Travis felt a mild sense of dislike. He quashed it as irrational and instead of walking straight past as he’d intended, he stopped by the table. "Andersen, everything all right down here?"
"Yes, Sir. The gendarmes found nothing. They believe, and I agree, that robbery was definitely not the motive…"
"Tell me something I didn’t know, Andersen. There wasn’t a thing out of place in his apartment, no sign of a search, no papers of any kind…"
"A random killing?" Andersen suggested.
"Where was the telegram?"
"Pardon?"
"The telegram we sent Ferrari last night. If the murderer took the telegram then it’s possible that our whole mission has been compromised. I want you to contact our man in Marrakesh…"
"Marrakesh? Why?" Andersen’s hand began to tremble and the water sloshed around in his glass.
"I want to hear again what happened a month ago. We must have missed something…" We have a leak. Travis decided to keep the thought to himself. A leak, when there was only a handful of people involved… and one of those people was dead. Was dead, not anymore. Orrin drew away from his aide. Maybe he would keep that knowledge to himself as well. "I’m going for a stroll over to this Café Americain, see if I can talk to the photographer. I’ll see you back at the hotel later."
"I’ll have a full report waiting for you," Andersen told the departing man. "A full report and more."
JD was on the verge of buying a pair of sandals when the vendor started pushing the barrow away from the two Americans.
"Hang on, I want to buy…"
"C’mon, JD. We can shop later. I need to make contact with Travis," Vin said, moving in the same direction he’d seen Chris and Buck leave a few minutes before as they followed the doc away from the café. He could still see Buck’s bobbing head over the crowd; they’d catch up with the others later, Vin had to get to Travis.
"Did your friend know anything?" JD asked, rushing to keep up with Tanner as he stalked down the street. They crossed the road without looking and JD jumped as a man went riding past on a pushbike at full speed, his tinny bell clanging out a warning of his passage. Vin walked on, oblivious. Other people moved out of his way, pushbike riders whizzed in front and around, automobiles seemed to pause mid-engine beat as Vin crossed; JD was amazed and followed behind as close as he could. "How’d you do that?" JD asked when Vin paused on reaching the sidewalk.
"Do what?" Vin frowned, gazing back down the street toward the Blue Parrot, trying to figure out how he was going to contact his boss when the café was full of suspicious gendarmes.
"Cross the road without getting run down," JD replied.
Vin laughed. "Timing an’ attitude, JD." He rested a hand on the photographer’s shoulder. "You can’t show fear. You do and those bicycles will be all over you like a dead skunk." He glanced back to the café and the grin faltered on his face. His finger’s dug into JD’s shoulder.
"What?" JD asked, trying to shrug out of Vin’s grip and turn his head to see what had caught the other man’s attention.
"Travis just walked outta the Blue Parrot… don’t look, he’s seen us. C’mon, we gotta get off the street… too many eyes and ears out here."
"What about Travis? And you haven’t said what your friend told you…"
"Travis will tail us." Vin had started walking again dragging JD along and then releasing him as they approached a knot of people watching a man charm a snake from a cane basket. Easing their way around the onlookers, Vin started talking again, keeping his voice low. "My friend… warned that the police had been tipped off last night by an anonymous caller that a southern rebel was hiding out in Casablanca…" Vin stopped outside a heavily curtained shopfront, glanced around to make sure Travis was indeed following, then pushed the curtain aside and stepped through.
The room was dull and thick with cannabis smoke. Vin turned to JD and put his fingers to his lips – JD was not to talk. A man dressed in a white ankle-length robe and a grey vest approached and Vin muttered a few words in the native tongue. The man nodded, called to someone in the back and then led JD and Vin through a smattering of kif-smoking men indolently lying or seated around the darkened room. The shop owner introduced a young boy and Vin talked to him a moment, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. Vin ended with a question and the boy nodded his head and ran out the back door. The man left and Vin ushered JD into a small nook in the wall. There was just enough room for a single table and four spindly chairs.
"Take a seat, JD." Vin sat down himself. JD took the seat opposite.
"Can I…" JD paused as a woman bustled in with a tray and began serving flasks and cups. JD waited for her to leave and began again. "Can I talk now? What is this place?"
Vin poured water into a cup and pushed it across the table. "Drink, JD. You look hot and the air ain’t particularly fresh in here."
JD sipped at the water, waiting for Vin to explain where they were. He didn’t wait long.
"This here’s a kif-house. Guy who owns it is Tarak’s cousin… of sorts. We’ll be safe here for now. You’re okay to talk back here, but keep it low." Vin waited for JD to acknowledge what he’d been told and continued on. "The police got the call about the reb and hotfooted it down to Tarak’s uncle’s house. Took everyone in the hope of flushing out the one they were after… didn’t work. The police were spotted and Tarak and his brothers hid. The brothers got out, but Tarak stayed in the house with his boy…"
"And was murdered by McCluskey? Do you think McCluskey was the anonymous tipper?"
"Seems that way. The family are all home again now and in shock. Brothers have sworn vengeance, but they don’t know about McCluskey… yet." Vin broke off his face hard and bitter, and JD knew then that Tarak’s brothers weren’t the only ones with vengeance on their mind.
Travis walked out into the street and casually looked around. The sandal-seller had gone. The small group of Americans had gone. Three or four children stood peering into the café window intent on not missing any of the action, traffic flowed noisily in every direction and the day was getting hotter every minute closer to noon. Travis pulled out his fob-watch - after eleven - and tucked it away again taking the opportunity to direct a glance down the street. He found his ghost straight away; standing with one hand on the shoulder of a younger man, the younger had a camera hooked over one shoulder. Our photographer, Travis noted to himself. Why am I not surprised? He locked eyes with the ghost for the briefest second and then faced away so as not to attract attention to the contact. Beginning to stroll down the street, he adjusted his hat, noticed the ghost and the photographer were on the move, and picked up his pace.
It had been awhile since he’d had to tail anybody anywhere, but Travis figured it was like riding a bike, something you just never forgot. Of course, it would help if he hadn’t spent the past two years behind a desk instead of out on the field… he stopped suddenly as he was confronted by a boy yabbering in Arabic, entirely too fast for Travis to keep up. Orrin checked the street in front of him, Damn, lost them, as the boy grasped his arm and tried to pull Travis toward a narrow gap between stores. But Travis hesitated; another thing old spies never forgot – never enter narrow gaps between stores with unknowns even if those unknowns were short and skinny. He hadn’t been in Casablanca long enough to know who he could and couldn’t trust.
"Imazighen," the boy said, tapping himself on the chest. "You come… Imazighen."
Travis recognised that word… ‘man of noble origin’, the Berbers. He nodded and smiled, knowing then where the boy was taking him - to meet his ghost.
The boy darted between the buildings and vanished behind a shabby door. Orrin followed him into a poorly lit room and looked around owlishly, nerves beginning to act up more than they had in years. Then he heard the voice he’d never thought to hear again and all trace of nerves faded away.
"Orrin," the husky Texan accent was clear as a bell. "Over here. Reckon we got ourselves a little situation to talk over."
Orrin stepped over to the table half-hidden from view by the shape of the room and shook the ghost’s hand.
"You’re looking mighty healthy, Vin Tanner. For a dead man."
Josiah Sanchez was bent over nearly double examining the remains of a clay tablet when Nathan Jackson drove up in a beat-up old jalopy. The engine sputtered to a halt at the edge of a row of neat mud-huts built, in turn, on the edge of a stepped and squared-off pit. The pit was wide, covering an acre of sun-baked clay dusted here and there with layers of fine desert sand. A dozen men, all dressed alike in pale loose-fitting robes, stood, squatted or knelt at various locations working to bare the history that lay buried beneath their feet.
The car door closed with a bang as Nathan got out and surveyed the site looking for his friend. He saw Sanchez carefully brushing something in the ground and muttering to himself, and began walking around the edge of the pit. Standing above Josiah, his shadow blocked the sunlight that seemed to beat down harder out here than it did in the city. Josiah looked up, his face smeared with dirt, to see who was blocking his light and grinned when he recognised the silhouette above him.
"How goes the dig, Josiah?" Nathan asked, even though he could see very little had changed since his last visit, nearly a month ago.
"Very well, Nathan. Very well, indeed. How’ve you been, brother?"
Nathan jumped down to where Josiah stood, avoiding the tablet by inches. "Keepin’ busy as usual," Nathan replied. "Busier than usual this week…" He looked off into the distance not quite sure, now he was here, how he was going to approach the reason for his visit. Josiah could be difficult to talk to at times, full of riddles and obscure analogies. Too much time alone digging in the dirt, Nathan had often thought. Too much time alone with ghosts of the past.
"That why you’re here?" Josiah asked, putting down his brush and pick.
Nathan shrugged. "Tell me about your site, Josiah. It’s been awhile. What’s happening out here in the desert?"
Josiah looked at the other man for a moment before turning and gesturing for Nathan to follow. "Let me give you the royal tour then, Nate. We got some good traits to follow and a good soil profile. Ahmed over here found the top edge of a large stone block last week. We expect to find some good buried soil underneath that maybe dates back to Anfa’s earliest years, maybe earlier if we get lucky." They walked around the site, stepping over the gridded out ridges of earth and around the men working. Josiah pointed out various objects of interest and their worth to history, test holes in the soil that had revealed nothing, others that promised the world and all the while filling in the details with stories of Anfa – Casablanca’s long distant past. They finally came back to where they started, the clay tablet.
"This tablet depicts various religious services set out in the form of songs and dances. Anfa was a Berber city, you know, and the Berbers put everything to song… song got them through the day, but I’ve told you most of this before, Nate, so why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?"
Nathan shoved his hands in his pants pockets and stared hard at the tablet. "Kinda got involved in something back in town, me and some other fellas. They helped me out when I needed it, saved my neck, now I want to help them. It’s real important." Nathan kicked at the dirt and looked away. "But I’m not enough. There’s six of us, we need one more… we need you, Josiah."
"I don’t do that any more, Nate. You know that." Josiah knelt down in the dirt and retrieved his brush. "Who’s that in the car?"
The car sat exactly where Nathan had left it. He looked to it now, parked in the partial shade of an old date palm. There were a few palms lining the road between the city and these ancient remains; Josiah had once told him they were the boundaries of a long-dead oasis. Not much else grew out here that was for sure.
"His name’s Chris Larabee. He’s a mercenary. He and another guy, an OSS agent, saved my life… just yesterday… Something’s going on Josiah. It has to do with the war. I can’t just sit back and do nothing. This war’s gonna affect everyone by the time it’s over. Can’t just pretend it won’t hurt us…"
"Been there before, brother. You don’t have to explain it to me." Josiah sighed heavily. "No, Nate. It’s taken me a long time to get here. A lot of years of digging dirt and carting rock; a penance… for before."
Nathan watched as the other man returned to his clay tablet. It was no good, he saw that clearly. Josiah carried too much on his back already for him to come along and add some more.
"Be careful out there," Nathan heard as he climbed out of the pit. "I found peace here of a sort, rebuilding something so long forgotten. I hope you find some peace out there."
"Maybe I will and maybe I won’t, but at least I’ll know I tried," Nathan said, not looking back. He returned to the automobile where Chris Larabee appeared to be napping, his hat pulled low over his face for extra shade. He flicked the hat up with one finger as Nathan place his hands on the roof of the car and leaned in to the open window.
"He says he’s not coming, says this is his penance."
"For what?" Chris asked, pushing himself out of his slouched position to watch Sanchez on the edge of the pit.
"Won’t say, but word is he killed a lot of men in the Great War and after; he’s a hard man to persuade."
"Could be useful in a fight," Chris said, thinking out loud.
Josiah was attacking the ground with a Chinese hoe, digging up chunks of dry earth to widen the archaeological pit further.
"This is our chance to help the oppressed people of this earth, Josiah," Nathan called out to the man. "Help save lives and souls."
The archaeologist straightened where he stood, one hand on the hoe and the other wiping sweat from his brow. "Seems to me a man should put his own house in order first. Can’t save no one else when my house is falling down around my ears."
Nathan cocked his head, struck at that moment by the sombreness of the man; something he hadn’t noticed in the past. He wondered if the deep sadness he could see there now had always been there, perhaps hidden by layers of dirt and care, and a passion for the past. He shook his head and walked around to the driver’s side.
"Can promise you a hell of a good fight," Chris said loudly.
"Hell," Josiah replied, picking up the hoe once more and lifting it over his head; striking it down into the earth, clods of soil flew into the air. "Already been there."
After Chris and Nathan left, Buck went to scout around town and see what he could find out. He drank more mint tea in one afternoon than he ever wanted to consume again and it had mostly been a big waste of time. Not knowing more than a few words of the local lingo he abandoned mingling with the natives in favour of sounding out the émigrés that congregated in the various cafes or wandered aimlessly through the souk. No one knew a thing except one English fellow who apparently knew Standish and who had enjoyed a conversation with the late Mr. Ferrari just hours before his death. Wilson, he said his name was and Buck committed the man’s features to memory though he doubted the Englishman was involved. By the time Buck saw JD hovering a few feet away, his camera pointed at the two men chatting, he knew Wilson’s life history and there was nothing there that pointed at a master assassin in disguise.
He made his excuses to Wilson and left, walking past JD who whispered that Vin was around the corner. The kid was having too much fun, Buck thought but he went where JD directed and found Vin leaning back against the wall of the café under the shade of a faded canvas awning. JD joined them and told them about some photographs of Travis he’d taken earlier in the morning that he wanted to develop. Vin just nodded, not saying a word and Buck wondered if he could completely trust someone so close-mouthed. But it was been Vin, in the darkroom while the kid played with bottles of chemicals and rolls of film, that filled Buck in on the whole story, starting with saving Nathan’s heinie from the Germans right up to meeting with Orrin Travis in the back room of a hash-house.
There was no air in the small room, the only light a dull red glow from a bare globe painted over with red paint. Buck suspected Vin was finding the closed in space – no where near enough room for three men – as confining as he was, perhaps talking to keep his mind off the same trapped feeling that Buck was experiencing. He was about to ask the Texan about it when JD let loose with a low whistle.
"Well, what do you know?" the photographer had said, reaching across the bench and flicking the light switch. The red light vanished, leaving the room in total blackness. Buck heard Vin gasp, felt him tense and then light filled the room – real light this time, not the redness JD needed to work by.
"What is it, kid?" Buck asked.
JD was holding up a glistening photograph, distilled water still dripping from the paper and running down JD’s bared arms. Vin leaned in close to JD and peered over his shoulder. If possible the air in the room grew thicker.
"See here?" JD pointed to the centre of the photograph. "That’s Travis. That guy standing behind him is Wallace Andersen. Vin says he’s OSS too. The gendarme he’s talking to is Lieutenant Casselle, but see where Andersen is looking…"
Buck took the photograph. "I know that guy, that’s Macdonald Wilson. Was just talking to him. Looks like they know each other."
"And that’s McCluskey standing with him," Vin added.
"You think they all know each other?" JD asked.
"Looks that way to me, kid, though Wallace seems surprised. Wonder if Travis knows who his aide is friends with?" Buck replied. He turned to Vin.
"I doubt it," Vin said, thinking hard. "But is Mack there because of Travis or JD?"
JD’s gulp was audible. He’d almost forgotten that.
"I don’t like it," Vin added.
"You think Travis is a target?"
Vin thought more than that. He thought that maybe Andersen was the weak link in Travis’s web of agents. Andersen, the man Travis was no doubt with this very minute. "I have to warn Orrin."
But Buck laid a hand on Vin’s arm before the Texan could go anywhere. "What makes you think that if Travis saw you this morning at the Blue Parrot then Andersen didn’t as well? The little creep would suspect something as soon as he saw you."
"It’s a risk I’ll have to take," Vin said.
"It’s too much of a risk, Tanner. Look at you, you’re wrecked," Buck argued.
"Besides, Vin, Mr. Travis said they were driving up to Fedala this afternoon with Casselle. There’s nothing you can do ‘til they come back."
Vin realised they were right on both counts. "Damn." It would be hours before Travis was back; hours they couldn’t afford. Damn, he repeated to himself. His eyes felt dry and gritty, his stomach hollow. "Buck, you go tell Chris what’s going on. Me and the kid’ll finish up here and meet you back at his hotel in a couple of hours. There’s a few people I need to talk to and I gotta do some shopping."
"The kid’d be safer hiding out with me in Chris’s room," Buck said, but Vin was shaking his head.
"That camera of his sees everything; we might be able to pick up something new out in the marketplace… and McCluskey likes to be alone when he kills… alone and in the dark. Reckon the kid’ll be safe enough until night."
"Y’know you don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here," JD suddenly interrupted, his face flushed with annoyance. "And I’m not a damn kid either. I can look after myself."
Buck chuckled. "Sure you can, kid. We’re just playing it safe. Ain’t that so, Vin?"
"Tarak could look after himself too, JD, and I’m betting Ferrari had a few tricks up his sleeve as well. You know McCluskey’s reputation. This ain’t no game," Vin said.
"I know that… it’s just that I’m not some naïve kid out for a lark. I can fight and I can shoot."
Vin nodded and turned to push back the heavy rug covering the doorway. He didn’t think he could stand another minute of this small room; he needed air. "You just might have to too, JD. By the time this is all over, we all will. Finish up, I’ll be out here."
"All right then. I’ll go now too," Buck said, following Vin out of the room. "Chris and Nathan should be back soon. What about this Standish guy? Haven’t seen him around yet?" Buck asked.
"I’ll go talk to him when you get back…"
JD turned back to the photographs as the thick rug of the curtain muffled Buck and Vin’s voices. He stared hard at the faces in the black and white prints, and hoped he could live up to his own boasting.
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