Don't Order Dog (5 page)

The locals called it
harmattan
.

The dry, immense trade wind erupted from the great desert and blew downward into the moist tropical interior of Africa with the beginning of the late autumn dry season. As it traveled south, the hot, restless wall of air sucked massive amounts of Saharan sand into its grip, turning the sky into a dull smudge of cinnamon that could veil the sun for days. It normally started blowing in late November – the desert-fired air and thick, dusty haze providing a mixed blessing of low humidity and pulmonary irritation – but this year the great wind, often called “the doctor” had come weeks ahead of schedule.

He knew this because he woke to a ruddy-orange African sky that refused to yield blue as the sunrise drew upward into morning. His throat was dry and scratched and his mouth held the gritty, mineral taste of sand and earth that was only slightly less pleasant than the morning-after taste of Jack Daniels. He glanced at his watch, checked his cell phone, then slowly rose from the bed to wash in the tiny, green-tiled bathroom of the hotel room. A cockroach darted fearlessly across his path as he scratched at the short dark curls on his head, reminding him to ask the concierge for a room upgrade. If only there was a concierge. Or a room upgrade.

The torrent of Port Harcourt’s morning traffic was already rolling and churning as he descended onto the street. Cars and buses jostled along the dilapidated road of potholes and pavement, a collective symphony of honking horns and screeching brakes as the smoke-farting motorcycle taxis called achabas and their daredevil pilots darted around them at fatal speeds. He fell in step with the vibrant current of locals that shuffled along the narrow line between merchant stands and vehicles, ducking his head beneath the noxious cloud of motor oil and gasohol vapor that hung suspended in the air.

Within minutes he knew he was being followed. He’d been taught how to sense it– a subconscious awareness he’d slowly learned to trust. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted them. Three small, painfully thin boys gazed back at him with large, yellow-stained eyes. He stared at them coldly before slowly easing his face into a smile. The boys instantly smiled back at him just as they had the previous morning. The largest of the three bolted towards him, his tiny chest swelling arrogantly under a dirty, threadbare shirt.

“How now, how ya body?” The boy’s thin, shrill voice asked in Pidgin English as he walked beside him.

“Fine-oh,” he responded with a low voice, not breaking his quick pace.

The boy’s rail-thin arm lifted upward as he held out his tiny, mocha-colored palm.
“Abeg,” he said confidently; his deep, mica-black eyes liquid and intense.

He stared down at him with mock irritation as his hand worked into his pocket, slapping 300
naira
into the boy’s palm before gripping it in the vice of his hand. “Coke, and some hot suya,” he mumbled.

The boy nodded quickly as he pulled pleadingly at his arm.
“Okay mista, okay!”

He released his grip and the boy shot into the dense forest of people, his two tiny colleagues trailing closely behind him. “Do quick!” He yelled after them, a sly grin creasing his lips. Within minutes his breakfast would be served.

He continued walking, weaving inconspicuously through the mob as it shuffled and flowed around him. It was market day, and the normally heavy throngs of locals clad in bright shirts and long, flowing
bubas
seemed to have multiplied two-fold as they converged under the smoldering, sand-blown sky. Everything was in constant, clamoring motion. Fluttering, leg-strapped chickens dangled from tall poles. Wheelbarrows loaded with exotic fruits teetered along the pock-marked streets. Baskets brimming with plantains and yams towered over him, balanced precariously on the pele-wrapped heads of local women.

A perfect day, he knew, to go unnoticed.

A shrill young voice called out from within the crowd.
“Heavy men!”
He smiled as he considered the pidgin meaning.
Tough guy
.  A moment later the boy was walking next to him, a sweating bottle of coke in one hand and two skewers of blackened meat in the other. The boy held them up silently, his tiny face broken with a proud grin.

“Thanks,” he said, grabbing his meal. “Now, make you carry youself go.”

The boy flashed another toothy grin. “A dey see yu lata!” He shouted as he turned to his sidekicks and the three tiny bodies again vanished into the crowd.

He continued towards the center of town, slipping efficiently through the crowd as he chewed on the suya– steaming, pepper-hot strips of beef that were a local delicacy. He ignored the weight of the backpack that clung heavily to his shoulder. Occasionally a merchant would step out from his stall and grab onto him, urging him to see a carving or hand-sewn shirt. He dismissed them with a wave, never breaking his stride. He walked on for countless more blocks before finally, peeking through the smoky-blue haze of exhaust, his destinatio
n materialized above the market. 

∞

The ten-story, immaculately finished façade of the Garden Landmark hotel stood in stark contrast above the squat, dilapidated squalor of its surroundings. Built just a year before, the tall, graceful building was a towering sculpture of glass and steel; so anomalous to its surroundings that it appeared as if a piece of New York City or Paris had suddenly fallen from the sky. He’d read that it was built to mark the beginning of a “new” Port Harcourt, but as he walked towards it, he thought once again that it seemed to only underscore the immense poverty of the place. To the majority of people here, the hotel was just a painful reminder of what they did not have; a mocking beacon of radiant, unattainable opulence.

He slipped easily from the stream of merchants and market-goers as he reached the entrance gate of the hotel, a large “GL” inscription elegantly emblazoned on the heavy steel gate. The massive concrete walls to both sides were intricately adorned with stylized reliefs of elephants, buffalo and lions; artfully masking their true intent of absolute security. A short, muscular security guard with a scar across his forehead eyed him with suspicion as he stepped up and wordlessly pulled his room key and ID card into view. The guard leaned against the gate and examined the card for a long moment before fixing his dark eyes on him intensely. He nodded calmly at the guard. Satisfied, the guard nodded back and opened the gate just enough for his thin frame to pass. He smiled casually as entered the courtyard, quickly appraising his surroundings as they transformed from the grimy, traffic-choked streets to a serene, open courtyard of rose trellises and flowering acacia trees.

The nearly empty atrium lobby of the Garden Landmark stretched across a reflective sea of black polished granite. The modern, minimalist décor was an austere landscape of chrome and leather furnishings, appearing to be made more for aesthetics than comfort. Large, stunningly intricate batik textiles suspended over the check-in desk exploded with hues of ochre and phthalo blue, offering the only homage to the local Nigerian culture.

He pretended to admire them as he strolled by the desk towards the elevators, smiling casually at the beautiful, slender young Nigerian concierge as he passed. Feeling her eyes on him, he wondered briefly if she, like so many of the young women in Port Harcourt, had been “trained” in the African style of customer service. He reached the elevators and stepped into the first one that opened its gold-mirrored doors. As the floors ticked off, he mentally re-checked the contents of his backpack, absently humming to a voiceless, synthesized version of Elton John’s “Your Song” that drifted from the overhead speakers. 

The eighth floor hallway curved gracefully as it followed the hotel’s serpentine design. His footsteps drummed a fast rhythm that echoed out into the open atrium as he paced down the bright mahogany-walled corridor. Stopping at the door of suite 814, he glanced quickly to both sides before sliding the key card through the electronic lock and stepping inside.     

Turning to close the door, he flinched in surprise as a man’s voice cried out behind him.

“Well good morning to ya, Chilly!”

Recognizing the thick Irish accent, he rolled his eyes as he stepped through the entryway.
“Christ, I should have known it would be you,” he smirked, raising his eyebrows at the stout, middle-aged man sprawled across the couch.  “Sleep well?”

“Fook yeah I did,” the man replied. “Nicest feckin’ place I’ve stayed at since I can remember. Never expected this in feckin’ Africa.”

He nodded at the man he called Dublin, silently noting that this would be their third job together. Although he knew Dublin’s real name, he would never say it. Not on a job, not ever. Nor would Dublin ever say his. Agency rules. “So you’re my fixer on this one, eh?” he muttered as he shrugged off his backpack and looked around the swank, lavishly appointed room. “Makes perfect sense. Your mouth is the only thing filthier than this city.”

Dublin’s
raucous laugh filled the room. “Yeah, and that’s sayin’ a lot,” he said with the gravelly voice of a smoker. “S’one nasty feckin’ town down there. Some beautiful lookin’ girls, but I’d put on four condoms before I laid my hands on any of that strange if I were you.” Dublin barely finished his sentence before convulsing once again into laughter.

He wondered how someone like the loud, foul-mouthed, overweight Irishman now stretched out in front of him managed to get by in this particular profession. Then again, maybe those qualities were exactly why he got by in this profession. Whatever it was, he didn’t object; he was just glad to have Dublin on his team. As far as fixers go, Dublin didn’t just get by, he was the best in the business.

“Well, if anyone can get his hands on something, it’s you,” he replied as he walked over to the wall-sized window of glass that looked out on the decaying city. “Of course that’s probably especially true for venereal diseases. Personally, I like to keep my nose and other parts clean.”

“Yeah, yeah– bein’ the feckin’ saint that you are,” Dublin retorted as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Prob’ly just as well. If I stay any longer, my fookin’ meat and potatoes will rot off.” He lit a cigarette and stared at his colleague for a long moment. “Speakin’ of rot, you’re really stayin’ at some shite hotel in town, huh?”

“I am. It’s actually much nicer than this,” he replied. “I doubt you even get complimentary roaches here.”

Dublin’s face split into an incredulous grin.
“Bugger-off mate! That’s the daftest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugged as he stared down at the colorful crowd swarming like ants around the market below. There was no need to defend himself on the subject of hotel accommodations. He had his own reasons for staying in the slums – none of which his colleague needed to know about. Besides, he wasn’t here to live it up. In fact, blending in was a necessary part of the job. And regardless how good the money might be, this was certainly not the job of a rock star. Well, perhaps it had a
few
similarities, but not many of the good ones.

He turned fro
m the window and dropped into an oversized leather armchair that sat across from the sofa. “Alright, let’s get to it.”

“Right.” Dublin snapped into focus as he sat upright and snuffed out his cigarett
e. Looks and language aside, he’d still not forgotten who was in charge. 

“What’s the status on the package?” he asked. This was always the first question, the most important question. Without the package, nothing else mattered.

“Package acquired, of course,” Dublin answered. His eyes darted instinctively at the three cell phones lying on the coffee table in front of him. “Not that it was feckin’ easy. S’like bein’ in the feckin’ dark ages around here. And I’m beginnin’ to think my job is almost as messy as yours for chrissake.”

“Sure,” he said dismissively. “And you confirmed the specs?”

“Yeah, yeah, confirmed,” Dublin replied, a trace of irritation on his face. “I am a feckin’ professional ya know.”

“Of course you are, Dub. Why do you think I always ask for my favorite Irishman when it comes to the tough projects?”

Dublin stared back at him with slits for eyes as he lit another cigarette. He wasn’t used to being made fun of.

“And our staging area?” he continued.

“Room 805. Visually checked. Everything as expected.” The Irishman’s mouth exhaled a long trail of smoke as he laid back on the couch. A thick roll of ghost-white skin revealed itself beneath his vintage KISS t-shirt.

“Time?”

“Package’ll be delivered tonight. 9pm. You’ve got my guarantee on that as always. 805 will be open for business by 6pm. I managed to get it logged by maintenance as a corporate hold until show time tomorrow, which means every employee in the building will think some executive fuckety-fuck is in there shagging his mistress. Trust me, you won’t have any interruptions.” He paused and took a long drag on his cigarette. “Tha rest is up to you, mate.” Smoke poured from his nostrils as Dublin’s mouth formed into a grin. “Got a long night ahead of you, eh? Ha! Fook yeah ya do!”

He smiled and nodded. “I suppose so. And what about you? Your work’s done for now. Off to some charity event this evening? Or perhaps lend a hand at the soup kitchen?”

“No rest for tha feckin’ wicked, mate,” Dublin said as he glanced at his watch and suddenly shot up from the couch. “I’m off to the airport. Wheels up in an hour.”