So Dan sat at the table. It was on the edge of what appeared to be a dance floor. And there was a small stage where a trio of musicians were unpacking their instruments: some sort of a guitar, a clarinet, and a set of drums. No amplifiers in sight. Dan felt grateful for that.
The menu had regular steaks and chops on one side, more exotic dishes with names that Dan didn’t recognize on the other. A waiter came up and, sure enough, he was wearing shoes with curled-up toes. Dan asked for an amontillado. The waiter expressed puzzlement in a down-home accent. Dan ordered a Jack Daniel’s with water. That, the waiter understood.
I wonder how long al-Bashir’s going to keep me waiting, Dan thought as he sipped at his drink and the three-piece combo warmed up.
Then the clarinetist announced that the first oriental dancer of the night was “Yasmin, a lovely Lebanese girl.”
She looked more like Texas than Lebanon to Dan: red-haired and billowy in a sequined push-up bra. Once she started dancing, Dan stopped worrying about when al-Bashir would show up.
He finally arrived after “Yasmin” finished her dance, to a raucous round of applause and some howls and hoots from the guys clustered at the bar.
“I’m terribly sorry to be so late,” al-Bashir said as he sat at the table. He didn’t look sorry to Dan; the man was smiling like a well-fed cat.
“No problem,” Dan said glibly. “I’ve been enjoying the show.”
“Ah yes, the dancers. They save the better ones for later in the evening.”
Al-Bashir seemed in no hurry to report his good news, so Dan asked him about the Middle Eastern side of the menu. He eventually followed the Tunisian’s suggestions and ordered shish kebab with couscous.
When their dinners arrived, Dan laughed. “The locals would call this barbecue.”
Al-Bashir smiled tightly. “The locals would never be able to appreciate the spices and sauces. They like their steaks half raw and their beer thin.”
Dan accepted that; he even halfway agreed with it
Through the dinner and into the honey-drenched dessert al-Bashir refrained from talking business. They watched the dancers, chatted about the food and the restaurant, and sipped spiced tea. Dan recognized the game al-Bashir was playing. Okay, he said to himself, you’re waiting for me to make the first move, to ask you what you have to tell me. But I can wait as long as you can, pal.
At last the band took a break. Al-Bashir dabbed his lips with his napkin, then leaned close enough for Dan to smell his cinnamon-scented cologne.
“I have good news for you.”
“So you said in your phone message,” Dan replied.
“I have managed to convince Garrison to accede to your wishes. Tricontinental will loan you the money you need, rather than buy your stock.”
Dan couldn’t hide his elation. “You will?”
“If that’s what you want.”
All his reservations gone, Dan grabbed al-Bashir’s hand and pumped it hard. “That’s what I want, all right. That’s exactly what I want.”
“Fine. That is what we will do.”
Suddenly at a loss, Dan stammered, “I… I don’t know how to thank you. I mean… we’ll be able to get the powersat running. We’ll be able to beam energy down to the ground.”
Smiling benignly, al-Bashir said, “I understand. You see, I want the power satellite to go into operation just as much as you do.”
Nashua, New Hampshire
Jane could feel the tension in Morgan’s hand as she sat beside him on the sofa, watching the early election returns on the muted television set across the crowded hotel sitting room. He’s trying to appear relaxed and confident, she knew, but she could sense the stress in every rigid line of his body. The suite was jammed with volunteers, aides, a few local politicians, all standing in clumps of twos and threes, their eyes on the TV and the numbers that were slowly accumulating. They spoke in near whispers, tense with expectation, conversations subdued.
More volunteers were gathering downstairs in the hotel’s ballroom, ready to party if the returns were good, ready to go home through the iron cold of the New Hampshire night if the results were as bad as most of them feared they would be.
Turning her head to look through the window, Jane saw that snow had started to fall outside, big wet flakes sifting silently down, quiet and serene, illuminated by the tall lights of the Nashua Marriott hotel’s half-empty parking lot. A late winter’s night in New Hampshire, Jane thought. It’s quiet in here, too, despite the press of all these people, she realized. Quiet, but taut with anxiety. You can almost smell the fear.
A good thing it didn’t start snowing until after the polling places were closed, Jane told herself. At least the snow didn’t keep the voters at home. And we can blame the snow for a poor showing at the party downstairs.
The TV screen showed the local news, with precincts reporting the results of the nation’s earliest presidential primary election. The volunteers crowding the modest sitting room were young men and women for the most part, dressed in comfortable, practical tweeds and woolens. No straw hats or garish campaign badges. The older politicians carried on terse discussions with one another, each of them wondering if they had backed the wrong horse, their eyes never leaving the numbers shown on the TV screen.
Denny O’Brien was standing by the well-stocked bar, deep in earnest conversation with the city’s leading banker. Jane had to smile at the contrast between them: Denny looked like a sagging, half-deflated blimp next to the lean, flinty-eyed New Hampshireman. No news reporters were among the crowd, Jane noted. Not one.
Well, she thought, we never expected Morgan to carry New Hampshire. He did well enough in the Iowa caucus, but the New Hampshire voters had barely heard of the governor of Texas when the campaign started. Still, we need to make a solid showing here, Jane told herself. The national spotlight is on New Hampshire tonight, and Morgan’s got to show that he can win votes.
“…and the surprise of the evening, so far,” one of the carefully coiffed TV analysts was saying, “is that Morgan Scanwell appears to be doing much better than the polls indicated.”
“Yes,” said his partner, smiling with perfect teeth. “Scanwell’s message of energy independence seems to have struck a chord among New Hampshire voters.”
All the conversations in the suite stopped for a moment, as the TV screen showed fresh numbers. Morgan’s in third place, Jane saw! In a field of seven candidates, third place isn’t bad. She felt her pulse rate quicken. He’s out-polling the Kennedy woman from Massachusetts!
As the evening wore on and the results from across the state came in, the hotel suite became louder and merrier. A couple of news reporters arrived and pushed through the crowd to ask for an interview. Scanwell grinned at them and looked at Jane.
“Let’s wait for the final results, shall we?” Jane said.
Nodding, Scanwell said, “Good idea. Shouldn’t be long now.”
A news camera crew barged in and commandeered one of the big upholstered wing chairs, one guy manhandling it into a corner of the room while his partners set up their minicam and lights.
“All right,” said the analyst on the TV screen, “here are the final results.”