Backup Men

20

IF WANDA Gothar wanted to ask Padillo if he thought he knew who had killed her brother, she didn’t get the chance because he rose, turned, and headed for the door just behind the last booth. The door opened onto a flight of stairs. I followed my leader.

At the top of the stairs there was a grimy hall that needed to be swept. Padillo hesitated before turning right or left and then turned right when a rich bass voice called out, “This way, Mr. Padillo.”

That way was down the hall toward the rear of the building. Pale amber light flooded through a half-open door. We went through it and into a room that seemed to have been decorated by someone enthralled with Egyptian antiquity. There was a large, authentic-looking statue of Osiris, king of the dead, which was flanked by one of his sister-wife Isis—the goddess of fertility, I remembered from somewhere. An old movie, probably. The rugs were also from the Middle East, Lebanon no doubt, and looked expensive.

The room had no windows that I could see, but that may have been because heavy amber drapes that looked like real silk covered two of its walls. The indirect lighting revealed some other Egyptian artifacts which I felt should have been in a museum: there was a large fresco that hung on one wall and looked as if it might have been stolen from the ceiling of Ramses VI’s tomb at Thebes; a sculpted head of Cleopatra could have been the double of the one I’d seen in the British Museum, and a bas relief that someone later told me depicted Hapi, the male god of the Nile who had the breasts of a woman because they were thought to represent fertility.

There were also some comfortable-looking chairs, an immense carved desk, and behind it stood Dr. Asfourh who could have lost 150 pounds and still been overweight. He was as fat as the late King Farouk I and even looked something like him, which he didn’t seem to mind at all.

“You must be Mr. Padillo,” Dr. Asfourh said in that rolling bass that to me sounded a little like spring thunder. “There’s the Spanish in your eyes.”

“The rest is Estonian,” Padillo said, accepting Dr. Asfourh’s hand. “This is my partner, Mr. McCorkle.”

“Scot?” he said as he gave me his hand which was surprisingly small, but just as plump as I’d expected.

“Some,” I said. “There’s also some Irish and some English but it all goes back so far that nobody’s really sure.”

He spread his hands in an almost imploring manner. “Do sit down, gentlemen.”

It took Dr. Asfourh a little while to seat himself because he did it cautiously, as if not too sure that the oversized executive chair was as sturdy as it looked. He grasped its arms firmly and then lowered himself into it slowly and carefully, but with a curious kind of dignity.

I guessed that he was somewhere between forty and forty-five. It’s often hard to judge the age of those who are extremely fat. His head had turned itself into the shape of a big-bottomed pear because of the jowls that draped themselves from his chin line, almost obscuring his short neck, and making it seem difficult for him to smile because his mouth didn’t like handling all that weight. But he smiled anyway—almost constantly—and I noticed that his teeth were white and even and probably capped. From the roundness of his face jutted a nose that was thin and sharp and beaked. It went with his dark, bitter eyes that flickered as they moved.

“I am Egyptian by birth, as you have probably gathered. But by choice I am an American citizen.” He paused a moment as if brooding about that choice. “So. You are from Washington and you are here for what purpose—business or pleasure?”

“Mostly business,” Padillo said. “Mr. McCorkle and I have a restaurant in Washington.”

“Really? I have been in Washington on numerous occasions. What is it called?”

“Mac’s Place,” I said.

“Just off Connecticut?”

“That’s right,” Padillo said.

“Although I have not dined there, it was recommended to me. I do believe that the person who told me of it described it as superb. Is that true?”

“It’s better than most,” Padillo said. “Superb is a word that should be carefully used when it comes to restaurants.”

Dr. Asfourh nodded his agreement as he smoothed a few long strands of black hair. He was nearly bald and the hair that was left grew just above his ears and formed several long thin arches over his white scalp. It didn’t help much, I thought. He still looked bald.

“So. You are in San Francisco for what—a new chef? Perhaps a new maitre d’?” He didn’t give us a chance to answer because he furnished his own. “No, you would be looking for neither at the Arabian Knight. It is not, as you may have noticed, a first-class joint.” He smiled contentedly at his use of the phrase.

“We’re thinking of expanding,” Padillo said. “We’ve already looked into New York and Chicago. Now we’re considering LA. and San Francisco.”

“All restaurant towns,” Dr. Asfourh said, nodding his agreement again. “However, I am still at a loss as to why you’re here. Jack’s or Ernie’s would seem far more suitable.”

“We’re also looking for a friend,” I said.

“A friend?”

“He’s from the Middle East. From Llaquah.”

“Your restaurant was recommended to us as being a kind of informal headquarters for those from the Middle East,” Padillo said.

“From Llaquah,” Dr. Asfourh said. “Very few who come here are from Llaquah. But if they do, they always seem to be in transit. And they always want something. A free meal perhaps. A place to sleep. Even,” he said, looking at us carefully, “even sometimes a place to hide.”

“Do you provide that?” Padillo said.

Dr. Asfourh took a long cigar from the humidor on his desk and lit it carefully with a wooden match. “I have not always been a restaurant owner. In Alexandria I was a physician. A dedicated one, I might add. Perhaps too dedicated. I was forced to leave my country and emigrate to yours where I hoped to resume the practice of medicine. I then still entertained most of the ideals of my profession. Dedication again. However, because of some incredible stupidity on the part of my colleagues in the American Medical Association, I was not permitted to practice in the United States unless I undertook a long, tedious and fruitless training program. Am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” I said.

“To shorten my story, I refused to undergo the training and became an illicit abortionist. They were probably the happiest—and most profitable—years of my life.” He paused as if to think about them. Fondly. “My dedication sloughed away as my bank account grew. Now, at the behest of the local authorities, I have retired from all practice. I pass the time operating this place and coming to the aid of those from the Arab world who find themselves in San Francisco—and in trouble.”

“And you do all this out of compassion?” Padillo said.

Dr. Asfourh shook his head in what he may have hoped was a regretful manner. “I am afraid not, sir. As my dedication to humanity sloughed away it was replaced by other drives. Far simpler ones. Greed. And,” he said, patting his enormous belly, “gluttony. Now the services I render my kinsmen I render only for money.”

“Have you rendered any this evening to a short, plump, bald man from Llaquah?” Padillo said.

The doctor sighed. “It is difficult to remember.”

Padillo took out his wallet and laid it on the edge of the desk.

“It gets easier,” Asfourh said.

“How much?”

One fat hand moved in a small circle. “I will pique your curiosity first. It tends to create generosity. He was accompanied by an Englishman, a tall, thin chap.”

“Go on,” I said.

“They needed a place of safety for the night. And part of the morning. I think that much should be worth a trifle.”

“How much is a trifle?”Padillo said.

“Shall we say a hundred?”

“Fifty.”

“Very well, fifty.”

Padillo pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the smooth surface of the desk. The doctor looked at it and smiled happily.

“I gave them an address. For a price, of course.”

Padillo nodded. “What’s your price to give it to us?”

“Five hundred.”

“Two.”

“Perhaps four,” the doctor said.

“Three.”

Asfourh sighed. “I do so dislike haggling. Especially with women. That’s the only phase of being an abortionist that was distasteful. Three fifty.”

“Three twenty-five,” Padillo said.

The doctor closed his eyes and nodded. Padillo took three hundreds, a twenty, and a five from the wallet and waved them gently back and forth. The doctor opened his eyes and smiled at them. One hand started toward the bills, but Padillo said, “The address first.”

“Of course. It’s a bit south of here on Mina Street. Should I write it down for you?”

“I’d like that,” Padillo said. “You might also sign your name to it.”

The doctor shrugged, opened his desk drawer, took out a small, thick sheet of cream-colored paper, wrote the address, signed his name, and then smiled faintly as if he liked the look of his signature. He held out both hands, one to extend the paper and the other to receive the money. Padillo handed me the address as the doctor picked up the fifty-dollar bill from his desk, joined it to the other bills, and put them away in a pocket of his dark suit. He smiled again as if the feel of money made him happy.

Padillo and I rose and started to turn when the doctor cleared his throat as though there was something else that he would like to say, but wasn’t quite sure how to bring it up.

He looked at Padillo and then at me and then back at Padillo.

“I sold that information cheaply, gentlemen, very cheaply, indeed.”

“I don’t think it was cheap,” Padillo said.

“Demand always drives up the price.”

“What demand?”

The doctor clasped his hands comfortably across his belly. “That in itself seems to be worth something, don’t you think?”

“How much?”

“A hundred,” he said. “And this time, no haggling.”

Padillo turned to me. “Have you got it?”

“Barely.”

“Pay him.”

I took two fifties from my billfold and laid them on the desk. The doctor eyed them fondly.

“What demand?” Padillo said, his tone edged with harshness.

“Not fifteen minutes before you arrived, two other gentlemen were here inquiring about the mysterious stranger from Llaquah.”

“Did you give them the address?” I said.

“Of course not, Mr. McCorkle.” He paused to smile. “I sold it to them for five hundred dollars. They didn’t haggle at all.”