Don't Order Dog_ 1(7)
“Of course,” left-seat said, turning to his colleague and gesturing for him to slide the envelope across the table.
He opened the envelope and quietly studied the information. Everything appeared to be in order; the photos and personal details of the four subjects were organized just as specified. Satisfied with the material, he closed the envelope and smiled at the three men who represented his latest corporate client.
“Great, well I think I’m all set then,” he said warmly.
“Do you have any questions?” standing man asked, a noticeable look of relief on his face that the meeting was almost over.
He nodded with a somber expression. “You’ve read my stipulations, correct?” he asked, pausing to look at each of them.
The three men nodded together.
“Then you understand the absolute necessity of the on-sites? The sample collections?”
“We do,” left-seat answered firmly.
“Very well,” he replied, standing from the table. “Gentlemen, it was a pleasure meeting you.”
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your time in our beautiful city,” left-seat said as he stood up from the table, visibly pleased to be done with the meeting.
“Very much so,” he responded, smiling at the sound of his own lie.
He slipped the manila envelope into his shirt pocket as standing man walked to the door and unlatched the deadbolt before peering into the street. A white-hot shaft of sunlight fell across the carpet.
“Your car is waiting for you,” left-seat said as he shook his hand, his dark eyes friendly. “Our most sincere thanks again.”
He nodded and walked to the door, pausing in the narrow alcove as standing man stepped aside to allow his exit.
“By the way,” he said, turning to the three men, “I’m no expert, but it seems to me that if you really wanted to keep this meeting secret, you might have opted for a less conspicuous vehicle.” He pointed through the cracked door at the large Mercedes once again parked in the middle of the vacant street.
Standing man’s puzzled face suddenly broke into a grin. “Mercedes? Ha! Everyone has a Mercedes here.” He laughed as he turned to his colleagues. “It is like having, what… a Toyota in the U.S.?” His two colleagues nodded affirmatively. “Bentley, Bugatti…maybe the latest Maybach. Those cars might get noticed. But Mercedes? No, no one here looks twice at them.”
“Right… of course,” he responded.
Standing man opened the door and briefly patted him on the back. “Do a good job for us again and we’ll bring you back to celebrate,” he said with a broad smile. “Take you out on the town… show you an excellent time… whatever you desire.”
“Sounds great,” he replied as he put on his sunglasses and stepped out into the intense arid heat. He looked back and grinned. “Tell your driver to have your finest Toyota ready for me.”
The laughter of the three men was cut off as the door swiftly closed behind him.
He opened the back door of the Mercedes and sank heavily into the soft leather of the seat. A feeling of calm fell over him as the automatic transmission clicked into gear and the car sped down the narrow alley and back towards the hotel. He closed his eyes as the air conditioner whirled to life, ignoring the sound of the driver’s bowel as it again grumbled threateningly from the front seat.
6.
Stadium Road Rumuomasi
Port Harcourt
October 16, 1:19pm
Planet Nigeria
Jeri –
This place is fabulous.
36 hours since touch-down, and I’ve only been arrested by the Nigerian police once. Long story, but I was able to buy my way out of wahala (That’s pidgin for “trouble” – isn’t language cool?) for less than 6500 naira, which is only something like $50 bucks, though they did make me pay in U.S. dollars. Double whammy.
If you receive any belligerent letters from the Abuja Eko Casino demanding immediate payment on a $1,200 blackjack debt, I suggest marking the envelope “DECEASED” and sending it back. And don’t blow up at me, sweetheart, because they were large, muscled, irate and willing to break my hands if I didn’t proffer up the faloose. I’m not exactly sure how they got the impression I own a saloon on Route 66 in beautiful bucolic Flagstaff, but do me a favor and don’t open any packages unless you are sure you know who the sender is.
Remember how I used to hang out with the “unofficial” supporters of the Manchester United football team when I lived in England? (I did tell you this, didn’t I?) Remember me telling you how we’d turn the streets into a drunken mass of brutality, and how right before we tore into the supporters of the other team, all of us – hundreds of half-witted bastard men, feeding on each other’s energy and blood lust – would whisper and chant “it’s going to go off… it’s going to go off”?