“You enjoy sex with the little African girl, don’t you?”
“Yes, but a relationship can’t be based simply on sex. There are probably many other people each of us would enjoy sex with.”
“Aha. You enjoyed sex with Betty Morgan, didn’t you.”
“Hard to deny. It wasn’t hateful. But here we are together. Why not make the most of it? And you are a daughter of the Prophet, a child of Islam. If you were married, how many other wives would your spouse be allowed?”
“Three, but that’s beside the point. You are not Muslim, so monogamy is our game plan.”
In a flash, I responded, “If you live with a lame man you will learn to limp.”
“What in hell does that mean?”
“Maybe if you think it over it might have some application. It just came to me, so it must focus on our conversation.”
She became pouty and suggested we give up sex.
I suggested we put the little one, small Andy, back in the womb.
That’s silly talk, she said. “Babies are like toothpaste. Once they’re out of the tube, there’s no going back.”
“And they say there’s nothing new under the sun. What pish tosh. Likening children to toothpaste is certainly innovative. For one thing, there were no tubes of toothpaste in Cleopatra’s Egypt, or ancient Greece or Rome for that matter.”
“You, Andy Blake, a scholar of antiquity. Well, I never.”
The afternoon was wearing on. I suggested we go for a dip in the pool then go out for dinner, possibly a restaurant overlooking the wine dark waters of the Med.
“The water isn’t wine dark.”
“Someone wrote that some years ago. It sounds wildly romantic, don’t you think?” Women are so pragmatic!
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Well into my second week of gambling at the blackjack tables, with very little to show for it, I became aware of a well-attired gentleman seated next to me who wasn’t playing.
“Could I have a word with you?” he began.
“What would we talk about?”
“I’m the manager here, Larry Abraham, and this is a dicey business, pardon the pun, and when we see unusual behavior, we have questions.”
“Do you see unusual behavior?”
“You’ve been playing here for more than a week and you don’t seem to win or lose much money. I’d say you’re a net loser. In a word, you don’t gamble.”
“Isn’t gambling recreation?” asked I.
“Of course.”
“You’ve answered your own question. Now I must get on with my recreation.” I turned back to the game after missing a few hands.
He was silent through two hands, me winning one and losing one. I doubled down on the next. “If you would come to my office, I’d like to get to know you.”
Continuing to play, I suggested if he would come to my office, we could get to know each other.
Larry asked where might that be.
“I’m often in the coffee shop about ten o’clock.”
“I could have you banned from this casino and send the word to other establishments.”
“And I could move out of my eight hundred Euro a day suite, move to another casino and then have you fired.”
Larry laughed. “You, have me fired. Ridiculous.”
“Try me.”
Holding at eighteen and seventeen, I won the next two hands. My daily stint at the table was done. Gathering my chips and turning to go, good old Larry said, “I might see you in the coffee shop.”
“Good career move,” I suggested, then made my way to our suite. Gathering up Oumou, and taking a quick look at small Andy and his nanny, we made our way to a nearby park.
First I called a detective agency in London where I had a standing account and asked for a quick rundown on Larry Abraham, Monaco casino manager. An in-depth profile, plus local activities, would follow. The agency was overjoyed to network with Monaco associates, of which there were many. What goes on in Monaco is often carefully watched.
Then Oumou and I chitchatted about her progress. She had joined the Islamic Center, a few blocks away. It was a Mecca for the wealthy Muslim set and often a hotbed of gossip. With her language skills, Oumou was like a vacuum cleaner, buzzing up the latest dirt.
We took no chances on our room and our landline being bugged. Business was conducted by cell phone in the wide-open spaces. Even then we were careful. It didn’t sit well with me to place my three-member family, plus domestic help, in harm’s way. But the cover was excellent.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Strolling into the coffee shop just after ten, Larry Abraham (although I had read a brief rundown and knew his real name) was already at a table for two, a pot of coffee and plate of croissants at the ready.
We shook hands and I poured coffee for myself. The room was almost full, but our table was off to one side where we couldn’t be overheard – unless of course it was bugged.
The man wanted information, so I stepped right in. “You know I’m rich, or I wouldn’t be in a high roller suite. You likely know I’m here with a young woman, her child and a nanny.”
“And the young woman, what relationship to you?” Larry questioned.
“That’s personal. You wonder why I play blackjack for an hour or so a day and usually never win or lose. Well, I have different projects going at present, including a very complicated one in the States. I’m on the phone, e-mailing, trying to make the poem rhyme. Blackjack is my relaxation. I get lost in it, no other thoughts crowd my head. So it’s that simple.”
“Sounds reasonable enough. You’ve always had money?”
“No. I didn’t earn it. I inherited it. Now tell me about yourself. What’s your nationality?”
“French.”
“Single?”
“Confirmed bachelor, a bon vivant to the core.”
Interesting, that Larry was lying to me. Why? “I’d guess you’re German.”
“Why in the world?”
“Your English is excellent. I’ve heard you speak a few words of French. I’m sure you’re fluent. But for some reason German sticks in my mind.”
“You think Larry’s a German name?”
“It sounds more American. I’m guessing you could pass. Konrad is German.”
A slight twitch and a blink of the eyes at the mention of his true given name. I continued. “For a man your age, mid-thirties I’d say, you should have been married once, possibly twice, unless you’re gay. I don’t think you’re gay.”
“You astound me,” Larry said, a frozen smile.
The croissant was warm, the butter soft and delicious, an excellent combination. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” A drop-dead hot woman entered the coffee shop wearing a totally transparent throw over a bikini bottom and no top. The hush in conversation was devastating, her slight smile indicated that she approved of the attention, basked in it. “Would you like to ban her from the hotel casino?” I asked Larry.
There were almost stars in his eyes. “That’s what makes the world go round. If this didn’t happen on a regular basis, I’d have to hire a few.”
“I assume there are hookers?”
Larry nodded in the affirmative, his eyes glued to the erotic woman. “Where would we be without hookers? Wine, women, song, gambling. The good life.” He came back to reality and sipped his coffee. “I seem to have underestimated you, Andy. Please forgive me. If you have any, say, desires, we have recreation directors who can arrange matters in a discreet manner.”
“I’m happy as a clam at high tide, Larry.”
“I’ve always believed sincerely,” he said, “that a man who has money is wise and handsome and can also sing well.”
“And will live forever and never lose his wit and ability to attract hot chicks.”
“Why not. It’s back to the grind for me. I’ll stop on my way out to greet the topless one. Perhaps there’s something I can do to make her feel welcome.” He rose, saluted me and moved off, weaving between tables
like a shark through a sleepy lagoon.
Soon he was bending over her table with a primitive leer. He was a bon vivant, but why the act? Why the lies? He was German, his given name was Konrad, he had been married twice, he had chalked up a DWI conviction in London, had been a person of interest in a Nice homicide and was rumored to be a blackmailer, possibly through photos taken in the hotel casino complex.
But usually discreet, always using others to collect for his dirty deeds. Greedy where the rubber hits the road in money matters. But how did he land this plummy job? Perhaps blackmail was the key. But such a devious, unscrupulous character certainly deserved a high place on my list in the field of money laundering. Quite a lot of info was gathered in his dossier quickly. So what might be revealed when my private dicks had a few days? I was on the edge of my chair!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
During her hours spent at the Islamic Center, Oumou had zeroed in on a wealthy Muslim by the name of Hanif Kurtha. He also seemed to be hanging around Monaco too long for a simple vacation. Kurtha was not shy about his anti-semitism. And he moved around the center striking up conversations with anyone he could.
Andy had faith in Oumou’s hunches and added Kurtha to his list of people to investigate while alerting his private detectives to compile a dossier on the man. In a very real way, Andy had his private forces and never tipped Homeland Security off to their existence. However, he regularly filled Chet in on his progress.
Oumou had really taken to this cloak-and-dagger routine. Andy had warned her more than once not to tip her hand. “Remember, we are tourists. To ask the wrong questions, or the right questions at the wrong time, might not sit well with certain individuals.”
Oumou laughed off the warnings. “Who would harm a little African girl? Do I appear threatening?”
“That’s the very reason you might be suspect. You seem too innocuous. Remember, the path to hell is the same from every place.”
“I swear, Andy, sometimes you say the damnedest things. I’m a good Muslim girl, bound for paradise. And Hanif Kurtha is my friend. We talk all the time. He’s the only one who pays any attention to me. Otherwise I’m just like a hunk of the furniture.”
“Just don’t get in too deep. I wouldn’t want to lose you.” For that I got a hug and a few kisses.
Then one day she was gone. She didn’t show up for dinner. After waiting an hour or two beyond the time when she should have showed, I called the police and also alerted Larry. A search was mounted. There was nothing I could do, so I called my detectives in London and had them put their men into the field.
I suspected the worst and, unfortunately, the worst came true. Her body was found floating just off shore. Grimly I sent the nanny and small Andy back to our home in Paris. It was my duty to call her parents, which I did. Larry and others attempted to comfort me.
I felt grief stricken and angry, a torrent of emotions. The loss was horrific. Anger at myself for letting her do it, anger at Homeland Security for getting me into this sordid situation, anger at the foul murderer.
The police speculated that possibly she had been drinking and fallen either from the jetty or from a boat. They called it an accident, and I didn’t dispute their ruling even though I knew it to be false. Why muddy the waters and get everyone on edge? I was returning to reason.
Phoning my detective headquarters in London, I asked that one of their agents visit me in my hotel room. Oddly enough, a woman, who identified herself as only Sylvia, showed up in less than two hours.
As we walked together toward a nearby municipal park, I said, “I was expecting a man.”
“So do the people I report on.”
“Touché. Do you carry a gun?”
“A small one.”
“What caliber?”
“A .32 revolver.”
Pulling an envelope from my pocket, I told her, “Here are a hundred Euros in exchange for your weapon.”
She gave me a long look. “That’s stupid. That’s not my job. I’m not a gun dealer. Anyway, it’s illegal.”
“A hundred Euros and you’d be serving your client. I pay your agency big bucks and I don’t ask about legality.”
She was silent as we sat on a park bench. “You do have a point,” she finally said. “It’s not like you accosted me on the street. In a very real way you are my employer. But what if you use it outside the law and it’s traced back to me?”
“In the worst scenario, you could deny the allegations and defy the alligators. But I assure you that I’ll do my best to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Anyway, is it traceable?”
She smiled. “No.”
“There you have it.” She opened her purse and passed it to me. Discreetly, I removed the gun and shoved it into my pants pocket. “Is there extra ammunition?”
Nodding toward her purse, she said, “It’s in there.” Rummaging around in the woman’s purse, I found several rounds and added them to my pocket. Then I dropped in the envelope of money.
“There is a certain person, a Hanif Kurtha, I’ve asked your agency for round-the-clock surveillance. Are you in on it?”
“I’ve drawn the nightshift. It should be plenty deadly.”
“If you could report to me directly there’d be a bonus in it for you. A big bonus.”
Sylvia stood as if to leave. “You mean instead of my agency?”
“No, no. Report to them as usual, but then to me without their knowledge. I’d get the report anyway. I simply want to be au courant, particularly on the nightshift.”
She shrugged. “No harm in that.” After exchanging cell phone numbers, she walked off and I hit a nearby bistro for a corned beef sandwich and a bottle of beer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
For the next few days, I continued my blackjack routine, which was a respite from thinking of Oumou, and I stepped up my chitchat with Betty Morgan as the Arizona project progressed.
Everyone thought I was counting on the new four-lane bridge across the Colorado River, replacing the Hoover Dam crossing, as my route to getting Arizona residents to and from Las Vegas. They were wrong.
Plans for my headquarters-residential building were complete and construction was well underway. A well had been drilled successfully and it seemed plenty of water was available for the foreseeable future. A pair of crack city planners had been hired to take up residence in the HQ and begin laying out the city, which would include all services, plus affordable houses.
Soon I would reveal the crown jewel of the project along with a prayer that it might be feasible – with a little help from government.
It was a simple concept. Visitors to Las Vegas already know that there is a four-mile monorail running from the Sahara Hotel to the MGM Grand, with a total of seven stations. It is driverless, privately owned and boasts the smallest footprint of any elevated transit system.
My grand plan was to build a high-speed monorail from Bullhead City, Arizona, to Las Vegas, Nevada. The cost would be staggering. It would require two tracks to continually move folks to and fro. And it would require government help. But eventually it would be doable. My chips were on it. If it came to fruition it would be my ultimate good deed. God bless me and God bless the American dream, providing staff for the gambler’s holy land!
Sylvia was calling me each morning. It seemed that Hanif Kurtha was seeing a prostitute, or his mistress, about every other night, very late. She gave me the address and I scoped it out. He had to park at the rear of an apartment building, leave his car and walk around to the front door.
The flap over Oumou’s death had died down, if there had been any flap at all. So the next night Kurtha was due to show up, I was waiting. And waiting. He never came. Poor girl! Denied her Islamic idol.
Patience is a virtue that I possess little of, but still, I was Johnny-on-the-spot the following night when Kurtha pulled up in his large black town car. Out he hopped, and out I popped, pistol in hand.
“Sir, this is a stick up.” I brandished the weapon. r />
He eyed me sullenly, probably thinking he could kick me over the moon. I wondered if Sylvia was watching from a discreet distance. I also wondered if a stray Monaco patrol car might amble by. Kurtha took note of the gun and finally said, “You can have my money, but leave my wallet.”
“Open the trunk of your car,” I ordered.
He shook his head no.
“I can shoot you here and take your money and your car, or you can cooperate, but there’s no time to debate.” The revolver in my hand moved in a menacing fashion. He handled his keys and clicked the trunk open. I ordered him to climb inside. Again he refused.
“You will be shot and very quickly if you refuse. And I will shoot to kill. A shot, even from this small gun might attract attention. I will shoot you, rob you and be off before anyone arrives. So get in the damn trunk.”
He climbed in the trunk. I took his keys and slammed the lid. Then we were off for a ride, carefully negotiating the hilly, twisty, narrow roads of Monaco.
As I maneuvered the large car, I thought of the Monaco Grand Prix and Monte Carlo Rally that doubtless took place on this very road, in this tiny principality that has been ruled by the Grimaldi family since 1297 –an unbroken string of royalty including America’s own Grace Kelly.
Also, Monaco is the world’s most densely populated sovereign nation, and incidentally, the smallest French-speaking country. Because of the crush of humanity, it’s difficult to find a secluded spot suitable for browbeating a man in the trunk. But I had checked out the area beforehand, my plan was in motion.
Pulling into a tree-shrouded spot far from the nearest building, weapon in hand, I popped the trunk. “How do you feel, Mr. Kurtha?”
“Cramped. Let me out of here. You can have my money and my car. Just let me go.”
“Nice try. I’m a crook as you might guess, but I’m out for bigger game. I want to know how the money laundering scheme operates.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tried to rise, but I pushed him down. He was as helpless as a baby kitten.