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was Assad beginning to leer, as if he suspected a homosexual relationship?
    “Yes. Just the two of us.”
    “Very cozy. And then?”
    “Barhopping for the next few hours. Except for a stop at the Palace Hotel.” Sam realized he actually had an item of possible interest for Assad. “Charlie had an appointment there. Someone I didn’t know.”
    Assad sat up straighter and flipped a page.
    “The Palace Hotel at the Royal Mirage? The big resort?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you saw this person?”
    “From across the room. I was waiting by the front desk.”
    He remembered the cab ride up a curving driveway beneath under-lit palms, the spooky feel of arriving at an oasis by night. They crossed a bridge over a man-made creek to enter a massive stone gate flanked by flaming torches. Facing them from the courtyard was a life-size sculpture of eight Bedouin camel riders, galloping straight toward them, as if guarding the hotel’s marble entrance. The lobby featured a high domed ceiling painted in multicolored pastels, with enough room beneath it for a grand fountain and four towering palms.
    Charlie made a call from the courtesy phone and crossed the room to wait by the elevators. Sam took a seat on the opposite side. A few minutes later a man came down. To Sam’s surprise, it was not a colleague in Western business attire or resort clothing, nor even a local in a flowing white
kandoura
. It was a member of the hotel staff, looking a bit ridiculous in a white silk turban and a red satin robe embroidered in gold. Hollywood’s idea of an Arab bellhop, or maybe a bouncer.
    They stepped into a little alcove on the far side of lobby. The hotel man sat on an overstuffed couch, looking as if he wanted to hide beneath the cushions as he glanced this way and that. Charlie, for a change, seemed deadly earnest. He sat kitty-corner in a chair of carved wood and inlaid ivory. Sam was intrigued enough to stroll closer, hoping to catch the drift of their conversation. But the splashing fountain masked their words. Charlie spent most of the conversation nodding. He paused once to scribble briefly in a small black notebook. The datebook, Sam realized now. Maybe the fellow had been some sort of pimp, procuring women for later. He might even have phoned ahead to the woman in blue sequins. Sam must have voiced this thought, because Assad spoke up.
    “A pimp? You may be right. Do you remember his name?”
    “Charlie didn’t say. But he was pretty big, built like a wrestler. Full brown beard, neatly trimmed.”
    “Yes. That will help. How long did they talk?”
    “Maybe ten minutes.”
    “Did anything pass between them? Papers? Money, perhaps?”
    “Now that you mention it, I think Charlie slipped him something just before they finished. Probably cash, some folded bills.”
    “You don’t know how much?”
    “No. But when the guy left, Charlie was all smiles. Then he took me around the corner to the hotel’s private club. The Kasbar, it was called. There was a bouncer out front in the same kind of uniform. There was a guest book and a velvet rope, but when Charlie mentioned we were with Pfluger Klaxon he waved us through.”
    “Did he say anything about his meeting?”
    “No.” Sam hesitated. “But I asked.”
    “And?”
    “He said it was personal. ‘Personal business.’ Those were his words.”
    “Anything else?”
    “I didn’t press him for more.”
    He hadn’t needed to. In truth, Charlie had talked awhile longer, although none of it was anything Sam felt comfortable sharing.
    “Wonder where they got
her
from?” Charlie had said, staring as their waitress departed in a skirt cut to the tops of her thighs. “Whatever. We’ll be seeing plenty more of that later.”
    He enjoyed a laugh at Sam’s expense.
    “Don’t worry, Sam. I know you’ve been told I’m a bad boy.”
    Sam looked down at his drink, tongue-tied. He was unwilling to lie anymore to maintain his cover.
    “Well, Nanette’s right. I
am
a bad boy.