Three Americans and a lot of Whiskey
She needed a drink--a hard one--and a new place to stay.
Gretchen wasn't really sure which one was more important than the other as she examined the bills in he hand. She just knew that she couldn't go play harem girl. She knew some part of her should have been offended by the fact that Ghazi and the chieftain considered her a cheaper gift than cash, but then she couldn't really blame them. A person was a hassle--more hassle than what most were worth. Certainly the food and clothes and bed and whatever else the tribe provided for her would be worth more than her company. She hoped the Med-Jai was considering this, also. Cairo wasn't much, but it had to be better than a tent in the middle of the desert. And if she was going to leave this crowded, ugly city, than it would be for a place apparently better.
As she wandered with remote determination down the dusty, suffocating street, Gretchen decided she would find that one person who could always solve her problems--who always had a solution and a helping, patient hand. She snorted sarcastically to herself, mocking sudden remembrance, Oh, wait. I don't know anyone like that. But she did know a good deal of opportunists. She knew people who would outstretch one palm for payment as the other lifted her up off the ground. She knew the synthetic trust that came with leverage. She knew Beni Gabor.
Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the very thought of having to deal with Beni. He certainly wasn't the rudest, or the most annoying, or slimiest fellow she did business with, but at the moment she could not recall the man who topped him in those arenas. Gretchen sighed. He was still better than the desert, and he was easy to please. She knew he had an apartment as well. Her brow furrowed at this thought, because she couldn't remember when she had learned that. Something in her head told her it was true, but something else doubted it. And she certainly didn't want to be wasting her best efforts on a rat with no home. Her feet slowed to a stop in front of the King's Casbah. She knew the haggardly mud-brick building well. The dark, seedy establishment was perhaps the biggest tourist trap in the whole city, because it was nestled intentionally in the lesser side of Cairo, and gave Egypt's sojourners the illusion of escaping the tourism track. It made Gretchen scoff. Those English and American and French travelers wouldn't condescend to an authentic Arabic bar. For one thing, they couldn't even communicate with the bartender.
She bit her lip thoughtfully, glancing at the heavy, black door. Her indecision was bothering her. Granted, it was only three in the afternoon. Ghazi wouldn't panic at her absence until six or so--five at the earliest. She had plenty of time, relatively speaking, to find a safe haven. With a shrug and nothing to lose, Gretchen pushed out of the blaring white light of day and into the dim, dingy world she was so much more accustomed to. The place was pathetically unoccupied. Typical, though, for a weekday and an early afternoon. A sigh escaped her throat as she mosied over to the bar and slid into a seat. Under normal circumstances, women weren't allowed alcohol in Egypt. But Western men insisted on retaining their silly notions of buying drinks for their dates and potential flings, and those vulgar vamps and flappers were too much trouble not to serve. If Gretchen cared about this country or its people, she might have found tragedy in their sacrifices for the sake of foreign colonization. But she didn't really see the point in pity. Who had that kind of energy? Everyone had his own problems; Gretchen certainly had hers...which, at the moment, consisted of a sinister desert man and the idiot musings of her pimp.
"Whiskey," she murmured, realizing the barkeep's waiting eyes. He opened his mouth for further specification, but Gretchen just shook her head wearily. "I...don't care. Just whiskey. In a glass. A big one."
She looked over the man getting her drink thoughtfully. He was a new one, she was almost certain. Younger than the guy who tended bar at night. He slid her the drink with a bony, grimy hand, and she glanced away from him without muttering a thanks. He was wide-eyed and starving, like everybody else. He was native, anyway. Muslims didn't see much value in casual sex. To be fair, Gretchen didn't, either. Most mornings, she woke up wondering what the point in the previous night had been. She personally couldn't figure out what was worth paying for, or why so mechanical a task could legitamately be taken as a trade-off for necessities. Here, she was banking on the fact that bedding a man would give her a safe, secret place to sleep tonight. And she knew she could count on that as a fact--not simply as a lofty, hopeful theory. But why? Not that she objected; for whatever reason, her opened legs were garaunteed to get her the things she needed. She had to assume the value of sex had something to do with the masculine mindset.
Gretchen tipped back her whiskey easily, allowing the liquid to sear down her throat and reach into her stomach with warm, buzzing fingers. She remembered, remotely, that she hadn't eaten yet that day, but lifted the glass against her lips and took another generous sip. Her head was numbing, and when the door opened, the hazy barroom tilted a little as she glanced to see who had come in.
"I still say I don't like the guy--"
Tourists. Loud, American tourists.
"Ah, hell, Daniels. Fella's the best egyptologist in the city!"
Gretchen blinked a few times to make their forms a little clearer. There was three of them, she was fairly certain, and they slouched easily into one of the back tables. As if anyone really cared enough to eavesdrop on them.
"I don't know what your deal is with 'im," the third one went on, just as loudly as before. "I'm a helluva lot more nervous 'bout that guide you hired."
The present victim of his friends' chidings let out a scoffing noise, shaking his head dismissively. "Ah...That little creep won't hurt nothin'. He's too scared not to do 'is job."
"I'm just sayin' I don't trust 'im," the other muttered finally. His buddies apparently didn't hear him.
"Burns, go get us a coupla drinks."
The same one sighed, standing up complacently and heading towards the bar. Gretchen took another gulp of her whiskey, and smiled at him. He barely gave her a glance before requesting the demands of his commandeering pals. She breathed a sigh, keeping a steady eye on him for a lingering moment before turning her eyes to the other two.
"You fellas gonna be lonely tonight?" she asked, surprised a little by the slur in her voice. One part of her wanted to be drunk for the rest of the day; the other, more logical part demanded that she sober up immediately if she didn't want Ghazi to find her.
"Nope," the spectacled young man replied easily, trying to grip the three glasses in his hands. Gretchen sighed, wrapping her fingers easily around one of the alcohol containers and pulling it from his reach. She could feel his irritated gaze, but disregarded it easily. If she had a dollar for every dirty look, she wouldn't still be in this business.
She slid from the barstool, her feet catching on each other and sending her dangerously close to plummetting to the ground. She gained her composure with clenched teeth, taking slow, measured steps across the room to reach the table. She got a thanks and a once-over that probably wasn't too impressed. But the whiskey was thumping in her head and tangling her thoughts around. She shook her head and sat down beside that Boston terrier of a man who'd been defending himself before. And then there was her whiskey in front of her again, and they were paying...and there was another whiskey...and she was laughing. The bar was spinning and full and dark and hilarious. Everything seemed so hilarious. And she was hungry, but she threw up...outside. How did she get outside? But there were the Americans again. Her sudden friends. She couldn't remember their names, but then they probably didn't know hers, either. And then at some point or another, everything faded around her into a remotely "fun" haze.