"Boyle… what are you…" That was all he could manage. I gave him the once-over. No broken bones. He had gotten a nice professional beating. No blood on the bad guy's hands, lots of close-in work to the torso. He'd have cracked ribs at the least. No syrettes in his pockets, and no wallet. No shoes, either. That made me laugh.
"Doc, you are one goddamn dumb Barney."
Dunbar moaned.
"Barney?" Kaz asked. "Is that American slang for a doctor?"
"No, it's strictly a Boston term. We call the Harvard boys Barneys, because of the trolley barns that used to be near the university. And this chowderhead is the dumbest Barney I've ever come across."
"The Arab boy… he was supposed to…" Dunbar stopped to wince again.
"He was supposed to take you to meet someone who would buy your drugs," I said, trying to finish the sentence for him.
"Oh God," Dunbar wailed, "what have I done?" He started crying.
"For starters, stolen U.S. Army property and conspired to sell it for personal profit."
His face went white. Tears were still streaming out of the corners of his eyes, but he seemed too stunned to take notice. Before I could say anything else, he doubled over and vomited.
"Good thing you don't have those nice leather dress shoes to worry about anymore," I said as I jumped back to dodge the splatter. I grabbed an arm and dragged him back across the marketplace, where the Arabs who didn't ignore us looked at each other and laughed. The whole place seemed to know what had happened. We walked under the arched entrance to the Kasbah and back to the jeep. Dunbar was still out of breath, rubbing his nose with his sleeve, and trying not to blubber.
"It was… just supposed to be… a one-time thing," Dunbar said, gasping for air as I helped him into the jeep, barefoot, dribbled stains on his tie and shirt, his cover gone. He was definitely out of uniform, which was the least of his problems right now.
"Sure, sure. Now just sit there and lean out the side if you feel sick again." I turned to Kaz, who was surveying the situation with that slightly amused look that usually seemed to be on his face. Around me, anyway.
"Big waste of time, huh?" I said.
"Well, Billy, I think you can eliminate the good doctor from suspicion of being the brains of a smuggling ring."
"Maybe that's what he wants us to think?"
"If so, then I am very impressed by his ability to vomit on command just to convince us he is a frightened incompetent."
We both managed a laugh. I heard Dunbar moan a bit as he tried to find a comfortable position and that made me feel better too. I plopped myself down behind the wheel as Kaz pulled himself into the passenger's seat.
"Okay, let's get back on track, Kaz. How's your arm feeling?"
"It hurts, but I'm fine. The doctor said I could have the stitches out the day after tomorrow."
"If you're up to it, can you work on the Blackpool connection?"
"Yes, I was just about to start when you called. Vincent is inquiring quietly about smuggling connections into Tunisia, assuming that Villard and Bessette are selling to the Germans. He also knows dock- workers who may have information about a smuggling route, through neutral vessels in the harbor. He said he's heard of refugees being smuggled into Portugal in the holds of merchant ships flying neutral flags."
"That fits with the Bessette family's control of the docks."
"Yes, but they will have to find an alternate route for the Germans or Italians now that Algiers is in Allied hands. We will search the vessels more thoroughly than the Vichy did, when they weren't bribed to look the other way."
Something in the conversation clicked in my mind. I had no idea what, but something Kaz said started the wheels turning. What was it? Bribes, Portugal, dockworkers…? I had the feeling that somehow he had given me the answer to a big question, but all I could think of was a million little ones.
"Billy, are you listening to me?"
"Yeah, Kaz, yeah, I am. Sorry. What were you saying?"
"I will use the radio link at Headquarters to contact the base at Blackpool and the Provost Marshal's office. Call the hotel and ask for me anytime. The staff will know how to find me."
"I'll bet. In the bar or the dining room, if I know you."
"Are you going to turn me in?" whined Dunbar from the back of the jeep.
"Shut up," I said over my shoulder. "Kaz, I have to get back, unload this bozo, and meet Harding. I'll drop you at the hotel and be in touch as soon as I can."
I started the jeep and gunned the engine as I drove down the narrow street. I was rewarded with a grunt and a groan from Dunbar as he was thrown back against his hard seat. Kaz was laughing as I pulled in front of the hotel and hit the brakes just enough to throw Dunbar around some more.
"Good luck, Billy," Kaz said as the smile disappeared from his face. "Stay alive and find Diana."
He put his good hand out and we shook. There was a lump in my throat. I watched the emotion sweep over his face as he wished for me what he could never again have for himself. I nodded my head, and watched him walk up the steps to the hotel, whistling a tune.
"Can we get the hell out of here now?" Dunbar said. "I need medical care in case you haven't noticed."
How do people turn out so differently? Kaz had lost his family, his country, his true love, was scarred for life, almost killed, and could still wish me luck and whistle as he went up the steps. Dunbar lost his shoes and took a few lumps, had blubbered like a baby, and now was acting like one. Time he grew up.
Chapter Seventeen
"It's not just Walton." Dunbar said in between bumps and potholes in the road as we drove to the hospital. "I'm in hock to a couple of other guys too. About a thousand, all told. I had a string of bad luck. Kept making stupid bets to try to win it back."
"And then you hit on this really good idea to break even? Selling morphine meant for the front?"
"Boyle, you should see all the stuff that comes through the supply depot. There's enough for an army!"
I was about to explain to Dunbar how that was exactly the point, but if he didn't understand now he never would. He was one of those guys who put their own problems, no matter how small, in front of everyone else's, no matter how large. That meant I had to make it a big problem in order to get his attention. I downshifted to take a corner, and looked around for a place to pull over. We were on the outskirts of the city where palm trees lined the road and peddlers pulling donkeys plodded along on the shady side of the street.
"Do you want me to shoot you right now, Dunbar, or would you rather wait for the firing squad?" I had to turn my head and yell at Dunbar, to be heard over the sound of the engine and tires in the open jeep.
"That's not funny, Boyle," Dunbar said. He spoke in gasps, as if talking emptied his lungs of air. Broken rib, maybe a couple.
"I think it's hilarious. Nice Harvard boy gets mixed up with gambling and drugs, ruins promising career, disgraces his family. Just the story to amuse an Irish kid from Southie."
"You can't prove a thing, anyway."
"You don't actually trust that rat Willoughby, do you? How do you think I got to you so fast?"
"Jesus," he said, again in that whining, airless voice. "I thought… What am I supposed to do?"