I have always loved the movie, Casablanca, it's one of my favourites. The idea of using this movie as the basis of a story has been peculating in my head for a long time. Those of you who have read my earlier story I'd Get You Out will remember the Casablanca dream sequence. Well I have decided to expand it and turn it into a full blown multi chapter story. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.
Castleblanca
Chapter 1
Richard Castle pounded the keys of the old Corona typewriter with a manic determination as he completed the paragraph he was writing. He finished typing with a flourish and leaned back in his chair like some concert pianist awaiting the thunderous applause from an enraptured audience. There was no thunderous applause. There was only the sounds of the bustling community that was Casablanca coming through the open French windows of his apartment.
He pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and began to read what he had written. A frown began to crease his face as he went over the words he had just written. The frown deepened. He stopped reading. Suddenly he screwed the sheet of paper he was holding into a ball and threw it in the direction of the waste paper bin. The paper ball missed its target and joined the other paper balls that had gathered on the floor. There were more paper balls around bin than in it.
For the past couple of hours he had been trying to write the latest chapter of his latest book only to come up against the solid wall that many a writer had encountered in their careers at one time or another. Nothing he wrote satisfied him.
Instead of reaching for another sheet of paper to thread into the typewriter and start again Castle reached for the bottle of bourbon that was sitting beside the Corona. He poured a generous measure of bourbon into a glass. He set the bottle back in its place and reached for the glass. He brought the glass to his lips and took a big gulp of the brownish gold liquid. The fiery liquor burned as it travelled down his throat but his face remained impassive. It was not the best quality bourbon but one had to make do during war time and he preferred bourbon to the brandy or cognac that most people preferred drinking in these parts.
Castle drained the glass in another gulp and quickly refilled the glass from the bottle. It had not escaped his notice that he had been drinking a little more these days than he had ever done before. It did not help that he received that telegram from his publishers a couple of days ago demanding the completion of the book he had been promising these past couple of months. So far he had only written half a chapter with far too many more to write. He was going to miss the deadline his publishers had set. He was going to lose the contract, that much he knew. They were simpply going to tear it up when the deadline came and went and there was no manuscript sitting on their desk.
Castle was a little troubled to find that his creative juices had dried up. It was as if a damn had been built across the river that poured fourth his creativity. It was not as if he had not encountered writers' block before. All the other times it was just a passing thing, a phase that did not last long. Yet this time it was different. This time it was lasting longer than before. It had been many months since he had written anything that he could call worthwhile. The drinking did not help with breaking open the damn. He had not written anything publishable in nearly eighteen months, ever since he lost his muse.
He picked up the glass of bourbon and quickly rose from his writing desk. The task of writing pushed aside, forgotten for now and perhaps for a lot longer. He could never remember the last time writing had been a chore for him like it felt right now. No, it had never happened. Writing had always been a joy to him. Stories would come to him and the words flowed ever so easily. Writing used to be a pleasurable experience. Not any more.
He walked slowly across the living room towards the French windows that led onto the balcony of the apartment. The moment he stepped onto the small balcony the early afternoon heat washed over him. The glare of the sunlight hurt his eyes and he squinted until the pain passed. Slowly opening them he let his eyes adjust to the sunlight reflecting off the roofs. He took a sip from his glass as he stepped to the railing.
Casablanca fabled and exotic stretched out before him, turrets and rooftops of sandy coloured and whitewashed buildings. Some of the buildings had roof top gardens whose occupants would gather under awnings in the afternoon to escape from the worst of the intense heat of the North African sun.
Castle's eyes dropped to the twisting street directly below. All along the street there were cafés and restaurants run by French expatriates or locals. There were also stallholders who displayed their wares to the passing parade of people. Some were selling local fruit and vegetables, while others sold bolts of cloth or trinkets. Some of the stall holders were doing a good trade in the early afternoon and others were forced to tout for business, waylaying passing people in the hope of getting a sale.
Castle carefully observed the polyglot of humanity that moved through the street. There were Moors and Arabs in their native costume mixing with the colonial French dressed in their white suits and dresses. Refugees from the war in Europe in dark and heavier clothing, looking confused and fearful to find themselves in an alien culture they had no understanding of. Several members of the local constabulary in their black uniforms and kepis strolled along the street keeping a careful eye out for any nefarious activity, a small group of soldiers of the French Foreign Legion walked in the opposite direction looking for a bar where they could slack their growing thirst or one of the other establishments that other kind of thirst.
There were so many stories down there in the streets. It should not have been so difficult for him but it was.
Castle had come to Casablanca eighteen months ago. At the time he was passing through, at least that had been his plan. He had been on the run so to speak. He had been involved in some activities elsewhere that had raised ire of the local authorities which had forced him to run. He had also come to Casablanca for another reason, one he did not like talking about. He had figured Casablanca would be a good place to lay low for a little while before moving on to some place else. However being a famous writer made it a little difficult. In the end he chose to stay.
Things had changed in the time he had been here. France had fallen to the might of the German army. Most of North Africa was dominated by the Germans with the only holdouts being Egypt to the east and the Vichy French possessions here in the west. With the war raging in Europe and elsewhere there were more refugees coming to Casablanca. Many came here in the hope of finding passage to places as far away from the war as possible, to countries like America.
Castle lifted the glass he was holding to his lips and took a big sip of the bourbon. His eyes travelled to the far end of the street. His face began to form into the beginnings of a smile when he picked up the sight of the large sign atop of the building: Rick's Café Americain. He had never thought he would ever end up running a night club then again he had never thought he do would a great many things only to end up doing them. It never ceased to amazing him how the Universe worked, and more in particular how it worked on him.
He had won the club of all things in a high stakes poker game only days after landing in Casablanca. He had been feeling low as could be and had hit the bottle harder than he would have liked, trying to kill the pain he had been feeling through copious amounts of alochol. He ended up in a high stakes poker game and he went into the game with all the savings he had in the world not caring whether he won or lost, just wanting to do something to take his mind off the pain that he was quietly enduring. The owner of the club was a bad poker player who had lost to Castle so much money that the only way to pay him was to sign over the club to Castle. He was more than happy to sign over the club and be shot of the financial drain it had become.
The club was a dingy run down establishment but Castle was happy enough to pour money to fix the place up. Now a little over a year later it was the number one night club in Casablanca. Almost everyone in Casablanca came to Rick's Café Americain. Castle was rather proud that he had managed to turn a run down money losing establishment into something that was the envy of everyone. It did not hurt that it also made a profit.
"Rick?" said a woman's voice.
Castle did not respond to the woman, he continued to watch the unfolding scene below.
"Ricky." The woman called out. "Come back to bed. It's too early to be up."
Castle slowly turned around to look at the woman standing in the doorway. A small smile rose to his face at the remark about it being too early. She obviously had not checked the time. She was a young woman of average height. Her pretty face was still drowsy from sleep, her shoulder length sandy coloured hair was mussed from bed. She had the looks that could have landed her a job as a fashion model in Paris if the war had not come. Or she could have been an artist's model. The young woman wore a cream coloured silk robe that was left untied to brazenly reveal that she wore not a stitch underneath.
There was a time so long ago the sight of a half naked young woman would arouse him. The young woman standing in the doorway did nothing for him.
Castle was a little troubled that he could not remember her name. Then last night names had not been important. He did know that she was one of the singers from the Blue Parrot, a club that vied with the Café Americain for being the best night club in all of Casablanca. Castle was a regular visitor to the Blue Parrot and a few of the other clubs in the city. Last night he had stopped by the Blue Parrot and she had been on stage. She might not have made it as a model but she had a pleasant singing voice that made her a regular performer at the Blue Parrot.
After she had finished her set she had come to the bar and they had started talking and one thing led to another and they ended back at his apartment.
"Come back to bed, Ricky." The woman pleaded in French accented English.
"Sorry doll face." Castle replied. "I have things to do."
The young woman pouted at his response. The smile on Castle's face faded. He drained his glass and headed in doors. As he passed the young woman he handed her the empty glass.
"Will I see see you again, Ricky?" The young woman asked.
"Who knows, doll face?"
"But Ricky." The young woman protested.
"I'm going to get dressed, you can see yourself out when you're ready, Santine." Castle called over his shoulder as he headed into his room to change his clothes. He felt pleased with himself that he finally remembered her name. He hated to think that he could not remember the name of the woman he had spent night with yet there had been a string of women of late, too many to remember all their names.
XXX
Captain Roy Montgomery was in his office in the Palaise de Justice getting ready to go out to the airport to meet an incoming plane from Paris. There was an important person aboard that plane. Captain Montgomery stood before the mirror making sure his police uniform was spic and span. He was not especially happy to have this person come to Casablanca but there was very little he could do about it. He had been ordered to meet the man and accord him all the courtesies.
Captain Montgomery brushed off some imaginary fluff from his epaulettes and continued to inspect his reflection. He leaned a little closer to the mirror. A small frown appeared on his face. Picking up a pair of scissors he proceeded to trim his moustache. As much as he hated having to traipse out to the airport to meet this VIP he wanted to make sure that he looked presentable.
A sharp knock on his office door had Captain Montgomery turning away from the mirror and returning to his desk. He put away the scissors.
"Come in."
The door opened and a uniformed sergeant came marching in. Sergeant Javier Esposito was under six foot tall with a swarthy olive complexion. His head was closely cropped. He walked with a military bearing that told of him having spent some years in the army. The sergeant wore a serious expression on his face as he came to stand in front of the captain's desk.
Captain Montgomery almost smiled at the man standing on the other side of the desk. Sergeant Esposito had been with him as his aide for the past year. Montgomery had taken him on after Esposito had been discharged from the Foreign Legion. He had to pull a few strings to get him into the police and with the rank of sergeant but Montgomery had not regretted it. Sergeant Esposito was a good cop with a number of successful arrests under his belt. He was a good investigator, had the right instincts. Montgomery knew that Esposito would become an even better cop under his tutelage.
"Sergeant Esposito?"
"Captain, this has just come in, sir." Sergeant Javier Esposito announced. He passed over the sheet of paper he held in his hand.
Captain Montgomery glanced down at the report and then at the sergeant.
"Why don't you tell me what this is about." Captain Montgomery suggested. "Save us time."
Sergeant Esposito nodded his head as he remained at attention.
"Two German couriers were murdered on the train from Oran, sir." Sergeant Esposito informed him.
The frown on Captain Montgomery's face deepened. He looked at the report in his hand.
"It is believed that the murderer and possible accomplices are headed for Casablanca, sir."
"It says here that the couriers were carrying important documents."
"Yes sir."
"Any idea what these documents were?"
"Not at the moment, sir." Sergeant Esposito said. "We have yet to receive the full report from the police in Oran."
Captain Montgomery frowned even more as he nodded his head. He set down the paper on his desk and stared at it. The murder of two German couriers was the last thing he wanted to be dealing with what with the immanent arrival of the VIP. This was a headache he did not want to be dealing with. Well there was nothing to it. A crime had been committed and it was his job to find the culprits.
Captain Montgomery lifted up his head to look at Sergeant Esposito. The frown had faded from his face and was replaced by one of determination.
"Round up the usual suspects and any suspicious characters and search them for stolen documents." Captain Montgomery ordered. "I want you to oversee this case personally.
"Yes sir." Sergeant Esposito responded.
Sergeant Esposito was about to turn and head out when the captain spoke again.
"Is my car ready?"
"Waiting for you out the front, sir." Sergeant Esposito reported.
"Good. I don't want us arriving late to meet the plane from Lisbon."
"No sir."
"I will see you out the front in five minutes, Sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
Sergeant Esposito nodded his head and marched from the captain's office. Captain Montgomery moved back to the mirror and gave his reflection a final once over. Satisfied that he was presentable he turned from the mirror. As he passed his desk he picked up his kepi and headed out the door.
XXX
Castle emerged from his apartment building onto the street dressed in a white linen suit. The top button of his shirt was left undone and his tie was a little loose. It would have been too stifling in this Casablanca heat to have the tie done up too tightly.
Castle scanned the street taking in the scene. It was pretty much the same as it had been each day he emerged from his apartment building. He set off down the street in the direction of his favourite side walk cafe. It had become a daily ritual for him to have a cup of coffee at his favourite café. Spend a little time reading the newspaper and just watch the passing parade of humanity as it went about its business.
Reaching the cafe Castle seated himself at his usual table that gave him a good view of the other tables and an uninterrupted view of the market and cafés across the street. Almost immediately, Pierre a waiter of French Arab extraction appeared at the table with a welcoming smile.
"Good afternoon, Mr Rick."
"Afternoon, Pierre." Castle replied.
"Let me guess, Mr Rick, a coffee?"
"You read my mind." Castle grinned.
The waiter grinned back, nodded his head and rapidly vanished into the cafe to get Castle's order of coffee.
Castle turned his attention to the side walk and observed the people walking by. His eyes widened a little when he spotted Santine strolling past the cafe. For a moment he though she was going to look in his direction. She didn't. Santine focused her attention on the street ahead as she walked.
Castle felt a more than a little relieved that Santine did not spot him. He really was not in the mood to sharing a coffee and a talk with her. He certainly did not want to have a scene with an angry Santine. She had been exciting last night but for him the excitement had faded rapidly. In fact all the women he had been with here in Casablanca had been found wanting in one way or another. They could not compare to...
Castle killed that thought stone dead. He was not going to think of her. He had made that promise to himself and for the most part he had been successful. Yet there were times when he was not so vigilant she did enter his thoughts and bringing with her all the joys and pain that he had experienced.
Pierre arrived at the table with a small tray that contained Castle's coffee. He set the tray on the table and passed over the large cup of coffee. It was a larger cup than the usual cups they used here in this café. Americans liked their coffee and lots of it. It was easier to serve the cup to him in a large cup rather than keep bringing fresh cups. Pierre also passed over the local English language newspaper. Reading the newspaper was also part of Castle's daily ritual. Castle nodded his thanks to Pierre and unfolded the newspaper to scan the front page.
There was the usual reports about the war in Europe and the battles taking place over in Libya. Castle only had to read just the first couple of paragraphs to know that the news was just a rehash of previous reports that he had read. Lifting his eyes from the newspaper he looked over to a nearby table where an elderly English couple were sitting. The Winthrops, Nigel and Melanie. Castle did not know them all that well, having met the couple a handful of times here at the cafe, exchanging friendly greetings and small chit chat. He could not help but be intrigued about them, wondering what their story was.
A police van with its siren screaming came barrelling through the street to come to a screeching halt in front of the market across the street from the café. A truck with native soldiers in the back pulled up behind the police van. The soldiers leaped off the truck and began to swarm through the market following the black uniformed gendarmes.
"What on earth is going on there?" Melanie Winthrop asked as she turned to her husband.
"I'm sure I have no idea, my dear." Nigel Winthrop replied his eyes focused on the scene unfolding at the market.
A young man with a swarthy complexion and a thick moustache rose from the table he had been sitting at and quickly walked over to where the Winthrops were sitting.
"Pardon. Pardon Monsieur, pardon Madame, have you not heard?" The man said in thick French accented English.
Nigel Winthrop looked up at the man and smiled weakly. "We hear very little, and we understand even less."
The young man gave the Winthrops an ingratiating smile as he sat himself down in the spare chair beside Nigel Winthrop.
"Two German couriers were found murdered in the desert." The young man announced.
"Oh dear, how terrible." Melanie Winthrop said with some shock.
"This..." The young man waved in the direction of the police van. "...this is the customary round up of refugees, liberals...and perhaps a beautiful girl for the Monsieur Montgomery, the Prefect of Police." the young man let out a chuckle at the little joke he had made.
The joke fell on unreceptive ears if the looks Nigel and Melanie Winthrop gave him were anything to go by. The young man shrugged his shoulders and brightened his smile. At that moment a parade of suspects were herded out of the market and forced by the soldiers into the back of the police van.
The young man turned his attention back to the English couple.
"Unfortunately, along with these refugees, the scum of Europe has gravitated to Casablanca." the young man said. "Some have been waiting for a long time for a visa."
"Indeed." Nigel Winthrop murmured.
The young man moved closer to Nigel Winthrop and placed a compassionate arm across the older man's shoulder. With his other hand he reached into Nigel Winthrop's open jacket.
"I beg of you Monsieur, watch yourself." The young man urged. "Be on your guard. This place is full of vultures, vultures everywhere."
Nigel Winthrop was taken aback by the young man's sudden display of concern.
"Yes, yes we will certainly be on our guard." Nigel Winthrop said with a chuckle. He looked across to his wife. "Wont we, my dear?"
"Oh indeed, yes." Melanie Winthrop agreed, nodding her head.
"Thank you very much, young man." Nigel Winthrop said, smiling at the young man.
"Not at all Monsieur, Madame." The young man said, smiling. He removed his arm from around the older man's shoulders. He rose from his chair. "Au revoir Monsieur, au revoir Madame."
Castle had lost interest with the rounding up of suspects almost as soon as the police and soldiers had rushed into the market. It was becoming a regular occurrence that there was no excitement any more watching the authorities going about their business.
His attention had been focused entirely on the scene that had unfolded at the Winthrop's table. He had observed the young man lifting Nigel Winthrop's wallet. He might not have known the Winthrops all that well he still liked them all the same. They were not a bad pair of old birds. He hated seeing old people being taken advantage of. They did not deserve that.
As the young man rose from the table and was bidding his goodbyes Castle dropped the newspaper he had been holding, he dropped some money on the table and calmly rose to his feet. He moved to intercept the young pick pocket. He caught the young man by the wrist.
"Excuse me, Monsieur." The young man said, startled.
"I think you have something that belongs to that gentleman over there." Castle said in a low voice.
"Oh no Monsieur, I think you are mistaken." The young man tried to break free.
Castle tightened his hold on the young man's wrist giving it a twist. The young man winced at the sharp pain that travelled up his arm. Castle stared at the young man coldly.
"Please Monsieur you are mistaken, I assure you." The young man said desperately.
Castle twisted the wrist a little more. The young man let out a yelp of pain.
"The next sound you'll hear is the sound of your bones breaking." Castle told the young man.
"Here...here, Monsieur." The young man said, his face racked with pain. With his free hand he reached into his jacket and withdrew the stolen wallet. He held it out to Castle. "There is the wallet Monsieur."
Castle smiled down at the young man. He took the offered wallet but his hold remained on the young man's wrist.
"If I ever see you loitering around here again, I will break both your wrists, and for good measure all your fingers, is that understood?"
"Yes, yes Monsieur."
Castle released the young man's wrist. The young man could not get away fast enough. He ran down the street as fast as his legs could carry him. Castle watched him running away. He could have easily broken the young man's wrist. A small part of him had wanted to do that perhaps as a way to teach him a lesson. He shook his head trying to rid that unsavoury thought.
He turned and forced a small smile to his face and approached the Winthrops.
"Mr Winthrop I believe this might be yours?" Castle said holding out the wallet to Nigel Winthrop.
The older man immediately reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. His face blossomed in surprise when he withdrew his hand on finding nothing in the pocket.
"Why yes it is, Mr Castle."
"You probably dropped it as you came to the café." Castle suggested with a smile. He handed the wallet.
"Thank you, Mr Castle."
"Don't mention it."
"Would you care to join us, Mr Castle?" Melanie Winthrop said.
"That is kind of you, thanks."
As Castle sat down the roar of an airplane flying low drowned out all the noises in the street. All eyes turned skyward to watch the silver Fokker Trimotor a the large swastika painted on the tail flying low as it lined up for its final approach to the airport a mile away.
XXXXX
I would dearly love to hear what you think of this first chapter.
Con
