As Time Goes By
By
UCSBdad
Disclaimer: Here's looking at Caskett, kid. Rating: K Time: In a rather alternate universe.
On a dark desert highway…Cool wind in my hair…I never saw anything like this.
The scorching Saharan sun sank slowly in the west and the city of Casablanca began to cool as winds blew in from the surrounding desert. As the city cooled, people began to get ready for the night. Two groups of people concern us in this story.
One group consists of people, some rich, some poor, that desperately want to get out of French Morocco and to some, safe, neutral country, preferably the United States, and far, far from Nazi occupied Europe. Some dressed in bespoke suits from London tailors and some barely had enough to appear in polite company. Two unfortunate men could only leave their cheap hotel one at a time as they had only one pair of shoes between them. The richer ones could look forward to a sumptuous meal and a good bottle of wine. The poorer ones could only hope to slowly sip a glass of cheap vin ordinaire.
The other group were thieves, con artists, purveyors of forged documents and other riff raff. They preyed on all the people who wished to leave Casablanca at any cost.
We will meet both kinds of people in this story, and others as well.
Where are they going, you may ask? Why to Rick's Café Americain. Everyone comes to Rick's.
Rick Castle, owner of Rick's, walked from his office and stopped briefly to look over the crowd. They were much the same as the night before and the night before that and so on back more than a year to when France fell to the Nazis. Rick did his best to keep his clientele from being robbed by some of the people he saw, but many were desperate.
As he strode to the bar to have his Scotch on the rocks, a hand was laid on his arm.
"Rick, I've been trying to talk to you." Said the redheaded woman.
Rick sighed. He didn't need this.
"I'll buy you a drink, Meredith." He said, leading her to the bar.
"I don't want a drink, I want you. I thought you liked me."
Moe, the furry bartender, appeared as if by magic with Rick's Scotch on the rocks and a sloe gin fizz for Meredith.
"Thanks, Moe." Rick said.
"Rick, we're good together." Meredith said. "And you know I like you. I like you a lot."
"Meredith, it was just a little fling. It didn't mean anything to me. Now, you should finish your drink and leave."
Meredith took a long sip of her drink.
"Do you think you can just use me and throw me away?"
"It wouldn't be the first time that happened." Rick said coldly.
Meredith slapped him.
"Moe, please call Miss Meredith a cab."
"You bet, Boss." Moe turned to Meredith. "Miss Meredith, you're a cab."
"Surely you can't be serious?" Meredith shot back.
"I am serious and don't call me Shirley."
"Moe, will you get her out of here before I have to listen to all of Who's on First?"
"Who?" Said Meredith.
"The guy on first." Moe replied.
"Moe, do you want to be the guy with no job?" Rick smiled.
Moe smiled back and picked Meredith up with one huge paw and headed for the door. They reached the door and went outside just as Meredith said, "So the catcher comes out from behind the plate, grabs the bunted ball and throws to who?"
"Of course, he does." Replied Moe.
Rick picked up his drink and walked around the club to see and be seen. He talked to some and ignored others. Sitting at a small, cramped table near the kitchen he saw Mr. and Mrs. Jerez. They were young newlyweds who had fought for the Spanish Republicans in the Spanish Civil War and had fled first to France and then to Morocco. Rick knew they could barely afford the cheap wine they were drinking very, very slowly.
"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Jerez. I wonder if you could help me out?"
"Certainly, Senor Rick." Mr. Jerez said.
"I recently bought some Spanish wine, but I'm not sure if it's any good. Me being a Scotch drinker and all. I wonder if you could sample a bottle or two and let me know how it is."
"We would be honored."
"Sasha, can you come over here?" Rick called to a waiter. Sasha had arrived as a refugee from Russia after their civil war and had been in Casablanca ever since.
"Sasha, could you please get a bottle of the new Spanish wine for Mr. and Mrs. Jerez? I need for them to sample it and tell me if it's any good."
Sasha was wise to the ways of Rick Castle.
"Certainly, Mr. Rick. But they'll need to cleanse their palettes after each sip. I should get them some bread, and maybe some cheese and cold cuts."
"Good idea, Sasha. I should have thought of that myself."
He turned to the two.
"Be sure to let me know how the wine is."
"We will, Senor Rick, and many thanks."
Rick headed back to the bar and his personal table. When he saw what was there, he turned to Moe, who was now back behind the bar.
"Moe, someone left a pile of dirty laundry at my table."
"Ah'm no dirty." Said a voice.
Rick realized he'd made a mistake. It was not a pile of dirty laundry, but the infamous McAuslan Vorlag. McAuslan Vorlag had served in the British army in the Great War, the Gordon Highlanders, to be exact. He had quickly developed a reputation for being the dirtiest soldier in the British army. He was not just dirty, but stupid, clumsy, illiterate, incapable of learning anything, and more, but he did try.
And so, when the Gordons went over the top in General Allenby's offensive to take the Holy City of Jerusalem in 1917, there was McAuslan Vorlag, ready to face the foe. His bayonet was rusty, his rifle filthy, his Glengarry bonnet askew, his kilt torn, his buttons undone, and his tartan hose were around his ankles. Well, he was ready to face the foe once his platoon sergeant had turned him the proper direction to face the foe. His sense of direction was as faulty as everything else.
At the end of the war, McAuslan had supposed to have gotten on a train to take him to the port of Haifa and from there a ship would take him home to Glasgow. Alas, his faulty sense of direction did him in. Instead of heading west, he got on a train headed east. The train's passengers soon made McAuslan ride in the windowless baggage car while they rode on the roofs of the cars. Oddly, although the Middle East was full of bandits, revolutionaries, counter-revolutionaries, and assorted thugs of all sorts, none of them bothered the train McAuslan was in. Perhaps that was not so odd.
McAuslan eventually detrained in Afghanistan in early 1919. It was perhaps coincidental that the Third Afghan War of 1919 began then with tens of thousands of angry Pathan tribesmen invading British India. The Amir of Afghanistan is said to have written to the British government, the League of Nations and to the Times of London, complaining of the British using some sort of chemical warfare on his people. No record of those messages can be found in any of the appropriate archives.
McAuslan arrived in British India where he was at first mistaken for a diseased and dying camel. Luckily for him, an officer who had served in the Gordons in the War recognized him for what and who he really was. British officials set a group of Indians known as Untouchables to washing McAuslan with a firehose. Regrettably, when they were done, none of the other Untouchables would touch them. The British then took him to the nearest port and put him on the first ship leaving. The ship was a cattle boat that had put into India on its way from South Africa to Australia. The cattle would have nothing to do with McAuslan, who was forced to travel in a lifeboat towed behind the ship.
Upon arriving in Australia, millions of feral rabbits broke through the so-called rabbit proof fence. Rabbits brought to Australia had thrived since they had no natural enemies there. Until the arrival of McAuslan.
He was quickly put on another ship headed for the port of Tangiers with a cargo of live sheep. The ship arrived preceded by hundreds of frantically swimming sheep, a mere fraction of the original cargo. The rest had committed suicide.
Alas, Morocco was in the midst of the Rif War. The Rif tribe had risen against their colonial oppressors and were closing in on many Moroccan cities. Everyone headed for the safety of Europe, except for McAuslan, who's errant sense of direction led him to Casablanca, just as a Riffian Army under the notorious Suleiman bin Aziz, the Lord of the Grey Mountains, was about to attack. One whiff of McAuslan and Suleiman's horses and baggage camels stampeded. Some made it all the way to Libya before stopping.
McAuslan was an unlikely hero and was kept around in case more Riffians attacked. Even after the Rif had been defeated, he was kept around by the Surete National, the French police, in case any wrongdoers should fail to agree to a voluntary confession after being waterboarded.
"Did you need to see me, McAuslan?" Rick asked, being careful to stay upwind of him.
"Aye. Cap'n Renault sent me wi' some news. Sum bluidy Huns was kilt yesterday. Cap'n says the bluidy Huns are in a arful state about it. Makin' threats an' all. The cap'n thought ye might git some news o' the buggers what scuppered the Huns."
"I'll keep an eye out for anything odd." Rick said. "Um, McAuslan your…aroma is slightly different."
"Aye. Cap'n Renault had the fire brigade hose me doon an' poured some perfoom on me. I smells right posh."
"Yes. It seems to be a combination of attar of roses and long dead fish." Rick turned to Moe. "Moe, please get McAuslan a beer and escort him through the side door. Not past the paying customers, not through the kitchen, the side door."
Moe, already wearing a gas mask, handed McAuslan a beer and led him away.
Rick watched McAuslan until he was sure he was clear of Rick's.
As Moe came back, he motioned to Rick.
"Trouble, Boss. Demming is here and headed for the back room. He should know by now he's not allowed in there."
Rick sighed and went to head Demming off.
Demming was short, grossly obese, had bad teeth and bad breath and although completely bald, had severe dandruff. That was because he had combed the hair from his ears over his bald head. His clothing would have shamed a long dead hobo.
"Demming, you know you're not allowed in the back room. That's reserved for a special clientele."
"Rick, I may be one of those special clients quite soon."
Rick sighed. Demming seemed to find a new get poor quick scheme every week,
"What is it now? A camel washing service? McCouscous drive ins? The Koran in glow in the dark letters for reading at night?"
Demming smiled. Sort of.
"Have you heard that two German couriers were recently murdered? They were carrying two Letters of Transit. They allow whoever has them to go anywhere in Nazi occupied Europe, even to neutral countries such as Portugal. They were personally signed by Her Hotness, Stana Katic. They cannot be questioned by anyone. They say Her Hotness is so beautiful that even her signature drives men mad with desire."
Rick was pretty certain that Demming had done more than look at her signature.
"I'm not the kind of guy who gets all sappy over some dame. I never met a dame yet that didn't understand a slap in the kisser or a slug from a forty-five." Rick said. He almost sounded like he believed it himself.
TBC