Inside Straight

“She was more than that to me.” Klaus grabbed his jeans and shook them. A scorpion tumbled from one cuff and scuttled off. “I dreamed I was at the Luxor, looking for her. Our suite went on and on. So many rooms, like a maze. I knew that she was lost, but still I searched, calling her sweet name.”

“I was having a nice dream, too. I was eating flapjacks with Simoon and Curveball in the Valley of the Kings. The Living Gods were making them. You should have seen Horus flip that skillet.”

“Flapjacks?” Klaus scratched at the stubble under his chin. He needed a shave. “What is flapjacks?”

“Pancakes.”

“The gods do not serve pancakes.”

“They would if they had some batter,” said Jonathan. “You woke me up with all your Lili, Lili moaning. Dude, what happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas, didn’t anyone tell you?”

“You would not say these things if you had met her.” Klaus pulled on his jeans and zipped them up. “She was beautiful.” He remembered the feel of her in his arms, the taste of red wine in her mouth when he kissed her. And her eyes. She had the most amazing eyes. “The smell of her hair…it fell all the way down her back, black as night—”

“Carpet matched the drapes, too, though mostly I was looking at her tits. You know, there are other girls.”

“Lili was a woman.” The first time Klaus had seen her, she had been standing under a hallway light fumbling for her room key, and something about it had reminded him of the girl beneath the lamplight in the old soldier’s song, so he had asked her if her name was Lili Marlene, and she had smiled at him and said, “Close enough.” That was all it took. He had made love to her three times that night, and when they were not kissing they were talking. Lili had been so easy to talk to, not like the other girls he had known. Klaus was sure they’d talked for hours, although the next day he could not seem to recall her telling him anything about herself, not even her real name. One moment she had been lying beside him, drinking wine from the minibar and laughing as he tried to teach her the lyrics to “Lili Marlene” in German, but then Jonathan had come stumbling into the suite, making noise and turning on the lights, and suddenly she was gone. Klaus had only taken his eyes off her for an instant, but …

“Oh, shit,” said Jonathan Hive. He was gazing off at nothing, and there was a distant, cloudy look in his eyes that Klaus had learned to recognize. “There’s trouble.”

“Where?”

“The Valley of the Queens. John’s there.”

“I go at once.” Klaus pulled on a fresh T-shirt. This one had a picture of the Candle. “Where is my hat?”

“Never mind the hat,” said Jonathan. “Just go. I’m with you.” The meat of his thighs dissolved away, his shorts sagging empty as a swarm of green wasps filled the tent.

~ ~ ~

The temperature was well above a hundred Fahrenheit.

Sand and stone shimmered in the heat. A kite circled high above the Colossi of Memnon, riding the thermal that rose from those great ruined twins. Cracked and weathered by countless centuries of sun and wind, the huge stone pharaohs still seemed to exude power. Perhaps that was why the refugees had chosen to huddle around their broken thrones.

The camp went on as far as Klaus could see, an endless sprawl of displaced humanity sweltering beneath the Egyptian sun. A fortunate few had small tents like the one Klaus shared with Jonathan, but more were sheltering under cardboard crates or heaps of rags. In Cairo, even the poorest of them had tombs to sleep in, and tourists to beg for coin, but here they were exposed to all the elements, with no one to beg from but each other.

And every day the camps grew more crowded, their residents more desperate. This was not the biggest camp, either. The one along the riverbank covered twenty kilometers, and small groups of jokers had spilled over the hills to the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens.

The boys he’d hired to watch his motorcycle sprang to their feet at his approach. “We guard good,” announced Tut. His brother Gamel just held out a hand. Klaus dug a euro from his jeans. It was too much, but he felt sorry for the boys who had lost their mother to the knives of Ikhlas al-Din.

When he kicked the stand back and fired the ignition, the engine coughed and smoked before it caught. The bike was a fifty-year-old Royal Enfield that Sobek had sold him for seven times its worth. Every time he rode it, Klaus found himself pining for the R1200S sports bike that his sponsors at BMW had presented to him when he had signed to be their spokesman. He loved the deep, throaty growl the boxer engine made when he gunned it down the autobahn in the fast lane.