Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 04

In the rooftop beer garden of Ye Olde English Pub, Bragg sat alone at a big wooden table, under the waving fronds of a big, potted palm. Huge fans thudded overhead, slung off rough-hewn beams, serving up random icy gusts from the air conditioned interior. For all the chintzy décor and eye-wateringly surly service, the place yet possessed a sense of comfortable familiarity, home-away-from-home in a far-flung land, with cold beer and a view of the city, now coming alive with the night.

Hardly a prolific drinker, Bragg nevertheless felt he deserved this one, after a long, wearying day of defeats and frustrations. Including several hours' wait in an anteroom at the Justice Ministry, hoping to see General Musharraf, only to be sent packing, long after the General had cancelled the meeting. Blown off, and not in the nice way. A gesture common in these parts, Bragg knew, highlighting the visitor's importance. Namely zero.

Then a call from Tanya, describing her friend's visit, and Nikki's experience in Ab Aldafra during her tenure as a wife of the king. Bragg had met Nikita a couple of times, at the odd high-society soiree, but had never really warmed to the woman. A man of many affectations himself, he found her candid, breezy, girl-next-door facade hard to swallow. Yet, looking back, she was one hundred percent natural, and Bragg was forced to admit it was mostly sour grapes. She'd been gifted a fortune, or so he'd believed, while he'd had to slave for every dime. An accidental millionaire, wealth without worth. But she was no one's fool, and what she'd told Tanya was far from reassuring.

Shoulders hunched, elbows propped on the table, Bragg unfolded a dog-eared page, then wet his whistle and began to read.

It was copy of the letter given to Bragg by Brigadier Khamim, for presentation to His Excellency, General Fahad Musharraf, head of the Justice Ministry. Translated by Ali the driver, painstakingly rendered in perfect cursive, the fawning, gushing prose read thus;

'Most revered colleague, hero of the nation and brother in arms. Keeper of justice, favoured of His Majesty

I bid you greetings.

If it please you, esteemed brother, permit me to introduce to you Mr. Roger Bragg of Australia. Attorney at law, friend of our nation and honoured guest of his Majesty, long may he reign.

Mister Roger recently approached my humble self, desirous of information as to the whereabouts and disposition of a female employee. An Australian citizen, Miss Alana Sarah Blake.

Miss Alana is presently a guest of His Majesty, long may he prosper, having, with unnecessary force and extreme prejudice, transgressed numerous laws and committed diverse offences. To wit, illegal entry, insulting the crown, obstruct justice and resisting arrest. While I sympathise with Mister Roger and wish to do all in my power to have these matters resolved, it is beyond my humble remit to offer information, or divulge the whereabouts of his wayward employee. Thus, I recommend Mr. Roger to you, that you may wield your power and authority as you see fit, in the furtherance of this esteemed gentleman's request.

May your dealings with Mister Roger be mutually beneficial.

I am and have always been, and forever shall remain your loyal servant. May the Herald bless and keep you all of your days,

Humbly yours,

Khamim'

"Say, Buddy," a voice said, shattering Bragg's reverie. Quickly folding the letter, Bragg looked up to find a sweating, slightly portly balding man standing over him, a mug of frothing beer clutched in his hand. Dressed in a suit, he had removed his tie as a concession to the heat and the venue, and stood looking at Bragg with a wan smile. He nodded at the vacant bench across from Bragg. "Is this seat taken?"

Bragg looked around, searching desperately for some reason to decline, but in the end he simply replied, "No, sure. Please, sit down."

The newcomer straddled the seat then drew his leg over. "Name's Chuck." he announced, offering a soft, fat, well-manicured hand. They shook.

"Roger." Bragg replied, then looked reflexively at his watch, in case he might have forgotten some prior engagement.

Chuck thumbed over his shoulder with a grimace. "Too goddam smoky in there. With all those goddam hookahs."

"Hookers?" Bragg arched his eyebrows.

"Hookahs." Chuck said, and mimed sucking the business end of a shisha. "You know, those hash pipes. The bubble things."

"Not sure it's actually hashish." Bragg said with a lopsided smile. His lawyer senses were tingling. Doing his best to be disarming, he knew nonetheless he had a bunny.

"Whatever." Chuck said, waving the comment away. "It's like goddam downtown LA in there." Pausing, he downed a long draught of beer and sat back, licking his lips. Bragg looked around. There must have been a dozen other tables in the rooftop beer garden, most of them empty, but this character had chosen this one. Straight away, Bragg realised, here was a stranger in a strange land, far from home and out of his depth, desperate for something familiar- a pub, a beer, another white face, a language that was even vaguely American.

"Quite a place, aint' it?" Chuck mused.

"The pub?"

"Ab Aldafra. Been here before?"

"Once or twice. How about you?"

"First time." Chuck said then took another pull at his beer. "And the beer." he said, nodding at the draft Asahi. "Not as good as back home. Say. Have you seen all those dudes wearing dresses out there? Wandering around in public?"

"Dresses?"

"Long white dresses, I swear to God. Do ya reckon they're queers?"

Bragg shrugged, lost for words. He must have meant thawbs, also known as dishdashas, the national garb for men. As for their sexual proclivities, the American's mistaken hypothesis yet impinged on an unspoken truth.

"Seem to be everywhere." Chuck frowned. "And those ladies in their big black robes, with just an itty-bitty slit for the eyes. Do you think it's a cult?"

Bragg took a sip, gathering his wits, then blithely replied, "I haven't really noticed them."

Chuck stared at him in dismay. "Hell buddy, they're everywhere. A guy can't walk twenty feet without bumping into one."

"I don't get out much." Bragg admitted. "Usually got my head in the computer."

"Well," Chuck said then drained the rest of his beer, "you should check 'em out. It's crazy, man."

"I'll make a point of it." Bragg assured him.

"Seen any camels?"

"Camels?" Bragg frowned.

"Uh huh." Chuck said, "Limo driver told me. This is where they come from."

"Ab Aldafra?"

"Apparently." Chuck nodded. "Only it's not the season unfortunately, otherwise they're everywhere. But you never know."

"Camels." Bragg shook his head, "Well I'll be."

Chuck looked into his empty mug, then over his shoulder at the broad, open frontage, leading to the pub's dim interior. "Waiter!" he yelled, then let rip with a whistle. A moment later a young blonde woman scuffed to a halt beside them. "Get me a beer," Chuck said, "and some peanuts."

"Let me get it." Bragg said as Chuck flipped open his billfold.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." Bragg nodded, delving into his own wallet and pulling out a couple of notes. "Make that two beers, thanks."

"Pint?" the young blonde woman sneered, "Or half pint?" Russian, Bragg thought, judging by the accent.

"Pints thanks." Bragg said, proffering the cash. The woman snatched the money without a word and slouched away.

"So, Robert?" Chuck said, "Here on business?"

Bragg opened his mouth to offer a correction then let it slide. "Uh huh." he nodded. "Making a couple of trades."

"What line of business are you in?"

"Oh, you know, imports and exports, that sort of thing. Nothing exciting. How about you?"

"Sorry, pal," Chuck replied, "not at liberty to say."

"Why not?"

"Sorry, Bob. It's classified."

"Wow," Bragg said, summoning an expression of wide-eyed naivete, "sounds important."

"Very." Chuck gravely affirmed.

"So you're like... here on government business?"

Chuck shook his head. "Oh no... it's far more serious than that."

Thinking he was joking, Bragg asked, "So, are you a secret agent or something?"

Chuck eyed the tall, handsome foreigner sitting opposite. So suave and cool in his designer jeans and button-up shirt. Head full of hair, greying at the temples, sexy stubble on his jaw, big fat wallet. Must have thought he was god's gift. "Uh huh," he nodded, secretly burning with envy, "something like that."

"Man," Bragg breathed, "that must be so cool."

The beer might not have been as good as American beer, but it was twice as strong and Chuck was quaffing it on an empty stomach. With sufficient lubrication, Bragg knew, by the end of the evening he would be singing like a canary, spilling his life story for better or worse. And right on cue, as if overhearing Bragg's thoughts, Chuck leant into him. "Can't say too much, but I'm on a secret assignment."

'Not for much longer.' Bragg thought, watching the waitress approach over Chuck's shoulder, two brimming pint mugs balanced on a tray. Pulling up beside them, she banged the beers down one at a time, then threw the change on the table. Bragg tallied the grubby polymer notes then looked at the waitress. "You've given me too much."

The waitress flicked a glance at the change. "No. Is correct."

"They're usually more."

"Is half price."

"Why?"

Curling her lip, the waitress summoned up a mouthful of vitriol. "Is happy hour."

******************************************************************************************************

The clock struck ten. Bragg nursed his beer, measuring every mouthful, while Chuck dived into his third like there was no tomorrow. His face had turned all ruddy and his words were starting to slur. The more he drank, the more he resembled a garden gnome, red-nosed and rosy-cheeked, albeit in a crumpled business suit. After a short lull of pensive drinking, the American suddenly spoke up. "Are you a man of God?"

Bragg bit down on his immediate reaction. Well versed on the evils of religion by his spiritual coach, his first impulse was to denounce the very idea. On second thoughts, though, he figured there might be hay to be made. "Well yes, I am, though I'm a bit slack when it comes to observance."

"You and me both, buddy." Chuck said then thumped his chest over his heart. "But it's what's in here that counts. Am I right?"

"Hundred percent." Bragg nodded.

"I can pick 'em, you know." Chuck said then raised his beer. They clacked mugs. "People of faith. Like you. Like us. You see, people like us have a kind of a light. Soon as I saw you, right away I said to myself, 'here's a dude I can trust'." He held out his hand. They shook across the table, a totally superfluous gesture of alcohol-fuelled largesse.

Chuck downed another mouthful, peering at Bragg. "Wanna know why I'm really here?" he asked, doing his best to look shrewd under the double burden of heat and alcohol.

Bragg looked around then tugged at his collar. Of course he did- if only for entertainment. And Chuck was busting to spill the beans, to talk himself up and bolster his ego, to shore up this newly formed bond. And, Bragg knew, a hint of reluctance was just the thing to spur him along. "Look, Chuck," he said, "I'd love to, really. But if it's gonna get you in trouble..."

Chuck raised his hand. "No problem, Rob, it's just between pals. And you're a man of God, you already said so." Parking his elbows on the table, Chuck leant towards his new best friend. "Fact is I'm a point man."

"Point man?"

Chuck looked around. "I'm A fixer, Rob. For a billionaire."

Bragg drew a short, sharp breath. "No way!"

"Uh huh." Chuck nodded, revelling in his best friend's reaction.

"Like, an actual one?"

"What?"

"An actual billionaire?"

Chuck narrowed his eyes. "Right. A multi, multi, multi-billionaire."

"Holey moley. How multi?"

"Five hundred? Six hundred. Nobody actually knows."

Bragg palmed his forehead, genuinely impressed. "Who is he?"

Chuck raised a hand. "Sorry buddy, not at liberty to say. But he's incredibly rich. And incredibly secretive. Very few people have even heard of him."

"Well I certainly haven't."

"Of course not. That's what I mean."

"A multi, multi-billionaire? Wow! I mean, you read about these people, but you never expect to meet someone who actually knows one."

"Uh huh." Chuck nodded. "In fact you might say, old Chuck here is one of his inner circle. One of the few."

Bragg downed a mouthful and shook his head. "I can't imagine how it must be. Hanging out with someone like that. What's he like? As a person?"

"Well, you know, around me he's just an ordinary guy. But to outsiders, I guess you could say he's kinda reserved. Not much of a people person. Lots of folks find him odd. What you might call a little eccentric. He's a Limey for starters."

"A what?" Bragg squinted.

"A Limey. A Brit. A lord or something, though these days he lives all over the world. Wherever he wants. But of course I didn't tell you that."

"No, of course. And you're... like... his right-hand man?"

"Uh huh." Chuck nodded. "His Winston Wolf I guess you might say."

"His Winston who?"

"Wolf. You know... Pulp Fiction? 'I'm Winston Wolf, I solve problems."

"What sort of problems?"

"Oh... you know... where his Lordship's gonna stay. How he's gonna travel in and out without anyone knowing. He likes to stay under the radar."

Bragg looked around. "So he's over here?"

"Will be soon, once I sort out the details. He's coming to meet the king."

Bragg's jaw sagged, for real this time, while Chuck took another slug of alcohol. "Yup," he said, while Bragg picked his game-face up off the floor, "the super-rich. It's like a club. They might own countries and eat babies and do whatever they do, but they still need guys like Chuck to make things happen."

Bragg raised his mug in a shaking hand. Downing the contents, he swiped his mouth with the back of a hand and got to his feet. "Gotta see a man about a dog." he said, then heaved a gassy belch.

"Dog?" Chuck blinked, looking like he was about to be abandoned.

"Water the horse." Bragg frowned. "Shake hands with the unemployed."

"You're not going are you?" Chuck asked forlornly, about to see his new best friend bail out. And he hadn't even made the big reveal.

"I need to take a pee, Chuck." Bragg said and nodded at Chuck's empty mug. "Another beer? It's happy hour."

Chuck instantly brightened. "You sure?" he asked, patting his pockets.

"It's on me, Chuck. Not every day you get to rub shoulders with the friend of a billionaire."

Bragg set off for the cavernous interior, weaving slightly, until the beer garden was out of sight behind him. Safe inside from prying eyes he straightened up, scanning faces in the crowd. Almost at once he picked out 2 familiar figures, and made a beeline for the pool table. They saw him coming, 2 young Filipina business girls, Angelique, the smaller one, in skin-tight white jeans and a sheer green shirt that showed off the black lace bra underneath. And her pal, Rachel, a little taller, in a short, tight, little black dress and red high heels. They were in the middle of a game, their dress and the physical contortions required to range the huge green table, keeping a large, appreciative audience suitably enthralled. Resting the butts of their pool cues on the floor, they greeted Bragg like 2 excited puppies, thrilled at the very thought of what the handsome white man kept in his pants. A big fat wallet. Stuffed with greenbacks.

Kissing each in turn, Bragg led them clear of the table and the scrutiny of bystanders. "Mitta Roger!" Rachel beamed, her candy-pink lip gloss shining like neon in the gloom.

"Busy night, girls?" Bragg asked, as Angelique threw her arms around his neck.

"We waiting for you, Mitta Roger. Now you make busy for us."

"Love to girls, but I'm on a mission."

The girls went, 'Nawww..." their protestations cut short by the sight of the tall, handsome lawyer reaching for his billfold.

"Seriously, girls. Are you working right now?"

The girls traded a glance. They were both fresh back from short-time gigs, their first for the night, all fired up and not yet jaded.

"You want we come to your room, Mitta Roger?" Angelique asked, leg up, mashing her pubic bone against his thigh."

"Later maybe, but first I was wondering if you could do me a favour."

The girls silently conferred once more. Not only was this guy a heavy tipper, he was friendly and good humoured into the bargain. But most of all polite and respectful, a nice man, a good human being. "You just ask." Rachel said, suddenly serious, and they both nodded.

Angelique gathered her hair into ponytail, exposing her flawless underarms. "For you, Mitta Roger, we do anything."

Clocking the nearest CCTV, Bragg herded the girls out of camera range to a dim corner. "Here," he said, head down, towering over them, "I've made a new friend, he's just outside. He's dying to tell me all about himself but he's a little shy." Pulling a wad of cash from his wallet, Bragg peeled off a thousand US, took Rachel's hand and crossed her palm. "Here." he said, "Just split it between you. And in return. Maybe you can help to put my friend at ease."

The girls stared at the cash, wide-eyed. As much as they'd normally make in a week. Between the two of them. "Ohhh, Mitta Roger," Angelique breathed, "that way too much."

Not that she had any intention of giving it back. Nor did Rachel for that matter. It was more a roundabout way of just saying thanks.

"Don't worry," Bragg said, playing along, "I'll take it out of your hides later on."

"Our hides?" Rachel said and Angelique snorted, "That not where you normally take it out."

"Now you're getting it." Bragg nodded. "Now, let's see you use some of your superpowers to loosen his tongue."

The girls gave each other a knowing look. They would have fucked a donkey for that much, with or without his life story. "You don't worry Mitta Roger." Rachel said, "soon he tell you everything."

"Atta girl." Bragg said, slipping the wallet into his back pocket. Turning to go, he did a sudden doubletake. "And girls. It's not Roger. Just for tonight, it's Robert, okay?"

Their faces lit up like kids on Christmas morning. It wasn't the first time they'd been drawn into some expatriate skulduggery. Even if they wound up on their backs later on, in some punter's hotel room, the intrigue was still a welcome relief from the grind of occupational fucking.

Chuck looked around at the sound of Bragg's footsteps and sagged with relief. Unsure whether his new best friend and confidante would actually return, he was weighing his options; find another sympathetic ear, or hazard a meal. Or just call it quits and go back to his room. Waiting till Bragg took his seat, Chuck raised his fresh mug of beer to toast their awesome good fortune. "Here's to you, Rob."

"And here's to you and your secret mission." Bragg replied, "Whatever it is."

Chuck downed half a pint without drawing a breath, then wiped his mouth and sat back with a happy glow. Seen through beer goggles, these odd surrounds, at first so daunting, had taken on a less threatening air, and now seemed more like a theme park than a far-flung foreign land. Ali Baba and the forty thousand thieves. Or was that nights? Whatever. This was an honest-to-god Disney desert adventure, just add alcohol.

Movement caught Bragg's eye. Looking up, he saw up 2 young women, Asians, pretty and petite, depart the covered area of the pub and walk quickly towards him. Overshooting, they came to a halt, side-by-side, clutching cocktails, casting quick, furtive glances over their shoulders. Chuck came upright at the sight of the women, and his eyes bulged as they turned and headed his way.

The smaller one, in the tight white jeans and flimsy green shirt, looked past Bragg at Chuck. "Excuse me sir." she said, "Do you mind to help us?"