Adventures (11 page)

I grabbed his arm, hooking it in my own, and kept walking. “Coals to Newcastle,” I said. “I'm going to dress you from head to toe.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Friday, with a suspicious look on his face.

“Brother Friday, just put yourself and your economic future in my hands,” I said reassuringly. “I promise that by nightfall you'll be the warmest man in all Egypt.”

“This isn't going to hurt, is it?” he asked warily.

“Not a bit, Brother Friday.”

“You're sure?” he persisted.

“Brother, the only thing that's getting hurt around here is my feelings when I see this lack of trust on your face,” I told him. “Now let's get to work.”

We began by hunting up a notions shop and buying a couple of hundred feet of bright white bandages. Then we found a little storefront smack-dab in the middle of the Avenue of the Pharaohs and plunked down a pound for a week's rent.

“Now what?” asked Friday as we unloaded our bandages into the empty store.

“Now you take a few shillings,” I said, “and go out shopping for a couple of pieces of white cardboard and a can of paint.”

“And what will you be doing?”

“Friday, you are the most suspicious partner a mortal man ever did have!” I complained. “I'm just going out to do a little serious thinking. I keep feeling that we need a little something else, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is.”

He muttered some gibberish in Swahili and stalked off to make his purchases, while I, deciding that I could think better on my feet than sitting in the store, began walking up and down the winding streets of Cairo. I guess I had gone about half a mile when a small but very rounded figure shot out of a doorway and grabbed me by the hand.

“I have lost my heart to you, noble sir!” she breathed, her dark eyes shimmering above the veil that obscured the rest of her face—and suddenly it dawned on me exactly what our little business venture was lacking.

“It ain't nothing to be ashamed of,” I admitted, smiling down at her. “Lots of ladies have felt even stronger emotions on less notice, me being a Christian and a gentleman, and an American to boot.”

“I am overcome by an all-pervading desire to give of myself freely to you!” she whispered.

“Freely, you say?” I repeated, as she began leading me into the doorway from which she had emerged.

“Well,” she said, modestly dropping her gaze, “there is a small handling and cover charge. as well as an entertainment tax.”

“Sister,” I said, still smiling at her, “I have a feeling that you and me were meant for each other.”

“Good,” she said, and from the way her eyes kind of crinkled up at the corners I knew she was returning my grin. “Shall we get the crass commercial details over with?”

“Suits me fine,” I agreed. “Of course, I ain't got any money, but...”

“Oh, damn!” she snapped, stamping her little foot in rage. “Not another one!”

“I do have a counteroffer to make, though,” I said.

“Forget it,” she said. “Why don't you go back to sweeping them off their feet in Peoria or Biloxi or some other backwater where paupers can—”

“Where'd you ever hear of them places?” I interrupted.

“Where do you suppose?” she said, ripping the veil from her face.

“Why, you're a white woman!” I exclaimed. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

“I'm an entertainer.”

“I can see that,” I said admiringly.

“I mean a nightclub entertainer.”

“Then how—?” I began.

“There are only two nightclubs in town,” she explained. “I played for a week in each. That made me about a tenth of what I need to get back home. And now,” she added, putting her veil back over her face, “if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to work.”

“You sure you wouldn't like me to take you away from all this?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you: I've got a little business proposition to make,” I said.

“Listen, mister,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “I may not be the most expensive girl in Cairo, but on the other hand you've already admitted that you don't have a penny to your name. What do you intend to pay me with?”

“One-third,” I said smiling.

“One-third of what?” she demanded.

“One-third of the stock, of course.”

“What stock are you talking about?” she said.

“The stock in our little company,” I replied. “Think it over. It's nice, safe, indoor work, and you can keep on your feet.”

“Just what kind of scam do you have going?” she asked suddenly, with just a trace of professional curiosity.

“That's a word I am unfamiliar with,” I said, “but I have the distinct impression that if I understood it I would be very sorry that I had opened my heart to you, Miss ... ah, I didn't quite catch your name?”

“Rosepetal,” she said. “Rosepetal Schultz. And no snickering.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” I replied. “And I am the Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones, pastor of the Tabernacle of Saint Luke.”

“Really?” she said dubiously. “You're not just some religious nut who's going to dress me up like a nun and then make vile suggestions?”

“Of course not!” I said. “This is strictly business. Let us proceed to our corporate headquarters on the Avenue of the Pharaohs, where I shall introduce you to our silent partner.”

“We have a silent partner?” asked Rosepetal.

“Not at the moment,” I admitted. “But by tonight he will be.”

We kept walking, talking about this and that and the next thing, and before too long we arrived at the store just as Friday was returning with his purchases.

“Well, hello!” he said, his face lighting up.

“Friday, this is Rosepetal, our new partner,” I told him.

“I don't know what Lucifer has in mind for you, but I'm all for it!” he enthused. Then he turned to me. “What do you want me to do with all this stuff I bought?”

“Start painting signs,” I said.

“What kind of signs?” he asked.

“Oh, signs that tell all and sundry that the mummy of ... Rosepetal, name a Pharaoh.”

“How about Tutankhamen?” she suggested.

“No. He's been used,” I said. “Try a different one.”

“Amenophis III is the only other one I know,” she said. “Although I suppose there must have been an Amenophis I and II.”

I turned back to Friday. “Have the signs say that the mummy of Amenophis III will be on display from six in the evening until midnight at, oh, three shillings per customer.”

“I'll have to get a paintbrush,” said Friday.

“Do that,” I said. “And buy yourself a big dinner. Charge it to the company. And Friday...”

He stopped in the doorway. “Yes?”

“I wouldn't drink too much coffee if I were you,” I said.

“Lucifer,” he said, “I hope you don't think that I'm going to let you wrap me up as a mummy!”

“Perish the thought,” I said reassuringly.

He stared long and hard at me again and then left.

“If he's not going to be the mummy, who is?” asked Rosepetal.

“Who says he's not going to be the mummy?”

“But you told him....” she began.

“I told him not to think about it,” I replied. “Good advice, too: It would only depress him. And now, if you'll excuse me for an hour or so, I have to do a little shopping. Why don't you make yourself at home and sort of tidy things up a bit?”

Within the next hour I had bought a dilapidated wooden coffin and a batch of gold foil paper and had them both sent right to the store. I picked up a couple of things for Rosepetal and then returned. Friday had finished painting the signs, and was already at work coating the coffin with the gold foil. I had Rosepetal help me hang the signs, and then we settled back to await late afternoon. There being nothing better to do to pass the time of day, I spent our remaining pound on three bottles of inexpensive but explosive vodka, and saw to it that most of the contents were poured down Friday's massive and eager gullet.

When he was properly mummylike in demeanor, which is to say stiff as a board, I carried him to the back room and wrapped him in the bandages, doing his arms and legs separately so he'd be more comfortable, and leaving just a trio of tiny holes for his nostrils and eyes. Then, since his condition hadn't changed appreciably, I had Rosepetal help me heft him over to the coffin, which was standing upright against a wall. We maneuvered him into it and then turned it away from the front window so passersby couldn't get any free looks.

“Thanks!” I panted. “I couldn't have done it without you.”

“That's the whole of it?” she said dubiously. “That's all I have to do for a third of the profits?”

“Almost all,” I said. “The rest should be a piece of cake.”

“The rest?” she said quickly. “What rest?”

“Here,” I said, withdrawing a small package I had kept in my pocket since returning. “Why don't you go into the back room and change into this?”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Your costume,” I said.

“What costume are you talking about?”

“Look,” I said calmly. “Friday's going to bring in all the mummy buffs in the city, but let's be honest: How the hell many of them can there be? Your job is to attract those customers who have absolutely no interest in mummies.”

She looked into the bag. “But there's nothing here!” she protested. “Just a necklace and a tiny little G-string!”

“What do you mean, nothing?” I said sharply. “I'll have you know that necklace alone cost me four shillings.”

“But Lucifer, I can't wear this! It's indecent!”

“A third of the profits,” I said.

“Never! I just couldn't!”

“Must be seven, eight thousand people pass here every night,” I said. “At three shillings a head.”

“Be quiet!”

“We'll each get a shilling apiece for every man, woman, and child who walks through the door.”

She grabbed the bag and stalked off to the back room. “But I think you're a low, despicable con man!” she yelled back over her shoulder.

I looked out the window, checked the sun, and reckoned that it was about a quarter to six, so I set up a table with a little cardboard cash box right by the doorway, pulled a chair over to it, and got ready to unlock the door.

“Is anyone out there with you?” called Rosepetal.

“I'm all alone,” I said.

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

She walked out hesitantly, an absolutely gorgeous vision of a full-breasted, narrow-waisted, hot-blooded Egyptian princess. She had her hands crossed modestly in front of her, and kept peeking around to make sure I hadn't lied to her about being alone.

“I feel not unlike a fool in this getup,” she said.

“Nonsense!” I said enthusiastically. “You'll outdraw Friday fifty to one.”

“You bought the G-string in sort of a hurry, didn't you?” said Rosepetal.

“I didn't spend long hours agonizing over which one to purchase, if that's what you mean,” I replied, staring in rapt attention as she inhaled and kind of fluttered all at the same time.

“That's what I mean,” she said. “You know, Lucifer, even if the queens and princesses of ancient Egypt walked around in G-strings, which I for one am inclined to doubt, I nonetheless think it very unlikely that their G-strings possessed emblems of Buster Brown and his dog Tyge!”

She spread her hands, revealing the problem.

“So we'll say it's young King Tut and his pet dog,” I said quickly. “Who'll know the difference?”

“It's bad enough that I'm out here being a bare-breasted and bare-assed and bare-whatevered shill for you!” she snapped. “I don't intend to be an object of ridicule as well!”

“You just keep on breathing and making muscles like that and I guarantee there ain't nobody going to be laughing at you,” I said devoutly. “Now get in the window and start attracting attention. It's time to open for business.”

“Couldn't you at least have gotten one with Teddy Roosevelt?” she said, taking her place and starting to gyrate for the pedestrians. “And what about a headdress? Egyptian queens wore headdresses.”

“They also didn't chew gum,” I said, gesturing for her to empty her mouth. “Now let's just concentrate on business.”

So we did, and business concentrated right back on Rosepetal and Friday—mostly Rosepetal—and by seven o'clock we had taken in almost five hundred shillings, and Rosepetal was so tired from shimmying that she forgot all about being embarrassed. Her body glistened with sweat, but I decided not to give her a towel, since it looked for all the world like she had anointed herself with various kinds of ancient Egyptian oils and love potions and stuff like that, and I even added that fact to my spiel.

We kept up our little show for hours, Rosepetal wiggling and wriggling, me telling the customers what remarkable curiosities they were looking at, and Friday mummying it up like he'd been doing it all his life. In fact, I was giving serious thought to franchising the operation when a small, skinny little Englishman with a daintily manicured mustache walked up to me, hat in hand, and cleared his throat.

I stopped my complicated explanation of the Dance of Sublime Surrender, which Rosepetal was right in the middle of, and turned to him.

“Yes, brother,” I said, putting on my best Sunday smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I don't mean to interrupt your show,” he said apologetically, “or to intrude in matters that are none of my business, but...”

“Just spit it right out, brother,” I told him. “Don't mind interrupting Queen Cleopatra here; she'll just put everything into a holding pattern until we can get back to her.”

“Well, I was looking at the mummy of Amenophis here,” said the Englishman, “when the strangest thing happened.”

“Oh?” I said. “And what was that?”

“It winked at me.”

A woman in the audience screamed.

“I thought it distinctly odd myself,” agreed the Englishman, turning to her.

“It must be your imagination,” I said smoothly. “Mummies don't wink. And even if they did, a vigorous, manly mummy like this one would wink at
her
“—I gestured toward Rosepetal—"long before he'd think of winking at you.”

Suddenly Friday grunted, and three women fainted.

“My God, he's coming to life!” cried an Egyptian.