The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

A roar of approval rose from the crowd at the tables. Bruce Lee had just finished vanquishing a small army of bad guys.

"The mysteries of the Orient," said Charlie, watching the film. "Right up your alley."

"Cut the shit. I'm tired."

Something in the detective's voice wiped the smile off

Charlie's face. Handing the photo back, he said: "Don't know her."

"Ever seen her around?"

The faintest hesitation, but the Chinaman picked up on it.

"No."

The Chinaman inched closer to Charlie, so that they could smell each other. "If you're holding out on me, I'll find out, shmuck. And I'll come back and jam one of those melons up your ass."

The bartender looked up. Smiling faintly, enjoying the sight of the boss being bossed.

Charlie put his hands on his hips. Raised his voice for the benefit of the bartender: "Get the hell out of here, Lee. I'm busy."

The Chinaman lifted a melon from the pyramid, knocked on it as if testing for freshness, then let it roll off his palm and fall to the ground. The melon landed with a dull thud and exploded, pink pulp and juice splattering in the dust. The barman looked up, remained in his place. No one else seemed to have noticed. All locked in on Bruce.

"Oops." The Chinaman smiled.

Charlie started to protest, but before he could say anything the Chinaman placed his right boot heel on the tent-keeper's right instep, leaned in, and put a little weight on it. Charlie's eyes opened wide with pain.

"What the-" he said, then forced himself to smile. The grand-daddy pooshiak, toughing it out, not wanting to look like a pussy in front of his fans. Not that they had eyes for anyone but Bruce.

"Tell me what you know." The Chinaman smiled back.

"Off my foot, you baboon."

The Chinaman continued smiling. Pressed down harder and talked nonchalantly, as if the two of them were buddies. Having a chat about sports or something.

"Listen, Adon Khazak," he said, "I've no interest in finding out what naughtiness you've been up to. Tonight." More pressure. "Just tell me about this girl."

Charlie gasped and the bartender came closer, bottle of Goldstar in one hand. "Charlie-"

"Get the hell out of here, stupid! Do your job!"

The bartender cursed under his breath, went back to washing glasses.

"Like I told you," Charlie said between his teeth. Sweat ran down his nose, beading at the tip of the beak, rolling off into the dirt. "I don't know her. Now get the hell off my foot before you break something."

"You've seen her around."

"What of it? She's a face, a nothing."

"Where and when," said the Chinaman.

"Get off and I'll tell you."

The Chinaman gave a good-natured shrug and broke contact. Charlie spat into the ground, did a sneaky little dance. Concealed his pain by pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a box of matches, jamming a cigarette between his lips, and making a show of lighting a match against his thumbnail. He sucked in smoke, blew it out though his nostrils. Repeated the gesture. Formed his features into a tough-guy grimace.

"Very impressive," said the Chinaman. "The girl."

"She's been around once or twice, okay? That's all."

"On a Friday?"

"That's the only time we're here, Lee." A kick at a stray chunk of pulp.

"Was she alone or with someone?"

"I saw her with a guy."

"What kind of guy?"

"An Arab."

"Name."

"How the hell should I know? They never came in. I just saw them hanging around. It was a long time ago."

"How long?"

"Month, maybe two."

"How do you know he was an Arab?"

"He looked like one. And he was talking Arabic." As if explaining to a moron.

"What did this Arab look like?"

"Skinny, lots of hair, mustache. Cheap clothes."

"How tall?"

"Medium."

"Be more specific."

"Not tall, not short. In the middle-maybe a meter eight."

"How old?"

"Eighteen or nineteen."

"What else about him do you remember?"

"Nothing. He looked like a million others."

"What'd you mean, lots of hair?"

"What does it mean to you?"

"Charlie," said the Chinaman, meaningfully.

"Thick, bushy, okay?"

"Straight or curly?"

"Straight, I think. Like yours." A smile. "Maybe he's your cousin. Lee."

"What style?"

"Who the hell remembers?"

"She an Arab too?"

"Who else would hang around with an Arab, Lee?"

"One of your cousins."

Charlie spat again. Inhaled his cigarette and ordered the bartender to clean up the mess.

"Street girl?" asked the Chinaman.

"How would I know that?"

The Chinaman cracked the knuckles of one hand.

"You're a cunt peddler is how, Charlie."

"I'm not into that shit anymore, Lee. I sell melons, that's all. Maybe this guy was pimping her, but all I saw was them hanging out. Once or twice."

"Ever see her with anyone else?"

"No. Just the two of them, hanging around-it was over a month ago."

"But you remember her."

Charlie grinned and patted his chest.

"I'm a connoisseur of beauty, you know? And she was good-looking. Big round ass, nice tits for someone that young. Even in those stupid clothes she was all right."

"She wore cheap clothes too?"

"Both of them. He was a nothing, a farmer. Give her a makeover, she'd be a fine piece."

"Tell me what else you know," said the Chinaman, restraining an urge to slap the little shit.

"That's it."

"Sure about that?"

Charlie shrugged, took a drag on his cigarette.

"Step on my foot again, Lee. From here on in, anything I tell you will be fairy tales."

"Ever see this Arab without her?"

"I don't look at boys. Do you?"

The Chinaman lifted his hand. Charlie recoiled, stumbling backward, and the Chinaman caught him before he fell. Lifted him by the scruff, like a rag doll.

"Tsk, tsk," he said, patting the tent-keeper's face gently. "Just a love pat."

"Goto hell, Lee."

"Shabbat shalom."

Back on his Vespa, he processed what he'd learned. Charlie's recognition had turned the girl from a picture into someone real. But when you got right down to it he didn't know much more than when he'd started.

She was loose, hung around with an Arab guy, which meant she was probably an Arab. Maybe a Christian-some of them were a little more modern. No way would a Muslim daddy allow his girl out at night, unchaperoned, least of all at The Slave Market.

Unless she was an orphan or a whore.

No one at the orphanages had known her.

A whore, probably. Or an unwanted daughter sold by her family-it was against the law, but some of the poorer families still did it. The girls, unwanted baggage, traded for cash to rich families in Amman or one of the oil states. The real slave market. Charlie had said her clothes were cheap

He kicked in the scooter's engine, flipped it around, drove south around the Old City. Past the Border Patrol jeep, which had stopped for a cigarette break near the Jaffa Gate. Swinging away from the walls, up to Keren Hayesod, zipping through the Rehavya district. Toward his flat on Herzl on the west side of town.

A lead, but pitiful. Good-looking, poor Arab girl with a poor Arab boyfriend. Big deal.

It was too late to knock on any more doors-not that that approach was worth much anyway. A day of it had brought him dumb stares, shakes of the head. Some of them pretending his Arabic was too poor to understand-pure crap; he was plenty fluent. Others simply shrugging. Know-nothing Ahmeds. For all he knew, he'd already talked to the right person and had been lied to.

If she had a family, they should have claimed her.

Probably a whore. But none of the pimps or the street girls knew her. Maybe a rookie. Short career.

Maybe the long-haired boyfriend was the killer, or maybe he was just a guy who'd screwed her once or twice, then went on to something else. Thin, medium-sized, with a mustache. Like saying a guy with two arms, two legs. Nothing worth reporting to Dani.