The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 10: And All That Jazz
Saturday, September 12th 2015. Early morning. Club Bálsamo, Las Vegas. ///God.Knows.Where
Peter and I were unceremoniously manhandled through a fire door, which led to a service area behind the club. It was walled off, to hide two dumpsters and a bottle bank. Two plastic chairs stood on soiled concrete, which was littered with cigarette butts. I was subdued by two of Arturo’s burliest associates but he handled Peter himself. It all happened in a matter of seconds and then Peter and I found ourselves on our knees, hands behind our backs, with tattooed hands on our necks that forced our heads down. My wig was examined, even though it was mostly still attached to my head. Arturo and his crew spoke in rapid Spanish, a language I can only partially decipher in its classic variety and certainly not speak. I stood no chance of decoding this Mexican regional dialect. Our pockets were emptied. Peter only had his wallet and his phone on him, but I also had my passport on me.
“Reginald Carstairs? I thought you said your name was Martin?” asked Arturo, thumbing through the other pages. The Home Office had put in some entry stamps from various countries, to make it more legible. There were even two that matched the dates of my visit to Qatar, which in reality I had made under my own name.
“It is...” I groaned, because this was a very uncomfortable position for me. And what’s more: very undignified. But I am no match for two Mexican gangsters, am I?
I was searched more intrusively. They were obviously looking for recording equipment and even examined my hairpiece. Peter got the same treatment. The word ‘Federales’ was used rather a lot.
Arturo sat down in one of the plastic chairs and ordered his thugs to allow me to sit up straight, even though I was still on my knees. It smelled like damp, mouldy cardboard here. Because this was a relatively quiet part of town, there was also the non-stop chirping of crickets or cicadas or whatever. Bugs rubbing wings at any rate. Not in a nice ‘here is a little Zen soundtrack to make you relax’ way, but a non-stop screeching. I barely heard cars, but there was a low electric hum caused by a large, external condenser unit on the club’s rooftop.
“So...” he said. “I make two new friends and one is wearing a wig and using a false name. And they are very rich, or so they say. FBI?”
“No. I am a private citizen. My name is Martin King.”
“And where do you get a false passport, Mr. King?”
“I got it from a friend who arranges them for a fee.”
Arturo turned to Peter.
“And what is your name?”
“I’m Peter Fox. I’m a British citizen. And Martin King is my client.”
“Client?”
“Yes. I’m with Keller & Fox, a talent agency. We handle the biggest stars. Martin King is one of our assets. He wanted a night out and I arranged it for him.”
“Assets?”
“Stars. He’s a movie star. But it’s not really ideal for your career if you’re going around buying coke and buckets of champagne, so I arranged a cover. And a wig. He’s THE Martin King. Look him up.”
Three phones appeared in various hands and began to search the internet. Arturo looked me over.
“Well, well ... A celebrity? You can certainly sing, Mr. King.”
“There is also a Mr. Carstairs,” said one of Arturo’s aides, and showed him a phone. Arturo studied the screen and scrolled down.
“Ah! You PLAY a Mr. Carstairs?”
“Yes. Most people seem to think that’s my real name. So I got a passport in that name.”
Arturo was shown another phone.
“Fatherland ... Hey, Kevin Tarantella! I love his movies! Reservoir Clogs, right? Tulp Fiction. Which one is Fatherland again?”
“Patria,” said the owner of the phone. Which is how Fatherland was released in Spain. Dubbed, even.
“Oh, yes! Now I remember! You were the Nazi! Captain ... something!”
“Meisl. If you saw the Spanish version you won’t have heard my voice. Auw. Auw!”
I’m not used to being on my knees. It was warm and humid, and it smelled unpleasant back here. I felt humiliated, even though I’d only been wearing that wig for a few hours.
“So the story about the Digital Services...”
“A lie,” admitted Peter. “We’re just here for a good time.”
Arturo, not bothered in the least by our distressed positions, looked at some more links presented to him. His eyebrows shot up.
“Missing?” he asked, looking at me. “It says Martin King has been missing. For weeks.”
“Yeah. Well, they found me. At the airport. Can I stand?”
“No. So where have you been, Mister King?”
“I really need to stand ... UNG!”
I’ve been in a few fights. I’ve received a few blows. It shakes you up a lot more than you’d think just from watching television, where the hero gets walloped and just raises his head, spits out some blood and comes up with a quip. What I did, when I was punched violently in the stomach, was nearly pass out and then throw up. There wasn’t much in my stomach, so that was very unpleasant.
“HEY! HEY! NO NEED FOR THAT!” yelled Peter. “Don’t damage the merchandise, fellows! Please! He was gonna answer, I’m sure he was.”
I was on my side now, my head pressed against Peter’s knee. I was gasping for breath, which is very hard to do if you’re also retching.
Arturo said something in Spanish that clearly meant the thugs in charge of me should leave me be for a few seconds.
“You shut up. Let him explain. No, no, don’t talk! Or I will have them cut out your tongue.”
Peter was smart enough to not even say ‘understood’ to that. I managed to sit up straight, but couldn’t do much more than sputter bile.
“Give him something to drink,” ordered Arturo. They did, by stuffing a bottle in my mouth and tilting my head. Sadly it was a bottle of Hennessy one of the thugs had taken along when we went outside. I don’t like any kind of hard liquor, but cognac is not what you want after you’ve just vomited. I’d have struggled with shandy, to be honest. So that was a bit of an ordeal, as you can imagine. I came uncomfortably close to crying. I’ll refrain from attempting to transcribe the noises I made, but as the ruined lining of my throat was now rinsed with alcohol you can imagine my discomfort.
“Water, get him water,” pleaded Peter, at great personal risk.
“Agua!” grunted Arturo, who seemed to understand the nearest drink isn’t always the best choice. Someone ducked inside and came back with a plastic bottle of Volvic. One hand was freed so I could drink at my own pace. After a few sips I could speak again.
“Hrmrmmm ... HHRRRmmmm ... ack ... Okay, okay ... You wanted to know where I’ve been?”
“Yes.”
“I became a father two years ago. A little boy. It’s been tough on my wife and me. She only loves him now. Nothing left for me. So I left the house, supposedly to look for work, but ... I don’t have work. I haven’t had much luck getting new roles.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone who sees me says: ‘Hey, there’s that Nazi!’ GRRRRRmmmmmhh ... sorry, my throat...”
“Agua.”
“Thanks. Mmmm ... ahhhhhhh. So I did a couple of auditions, looked up some friends. And I met this guy from Saudi Arabia. Prince Asim. He invited me to come to Saudi and hang out with him. Which I did.”
“Saudi Arabia. The oil country.”
“Yes.”
“Not a lot of fun to be had in Saudi Arabia, amigo.”
“Well, if you know where to look ... So that’s where I’ve been hiding out, lately. That’s the answer.”
“And why are you here? With your manager?”
“Peter has been trying to get me some auditions. But he’s also helping me with a business deal I’m trying to set up for the Prince. Secretly, because I might have uhm ... oversold my business acumen to the Prince. Ahem.”
“Ah yes, this business deal of yours. Which is what?”
“The Prince is sitting on a lot of gold. Like, a LOT of gold.”
“How much?”
“About sixty million dollars worth of it. Which is a few hundred kilos, I think.”
“More,” said Arturo, without thinking. He was right. It would be well over a thousand kilos.
“Yeah. And he wants to cash it.”
“Martin...” said Peter, as if trying to warn me off.
“Oh shut up! I don’t want to die!” I snapped. “He can ask me anything he wants.”
I was sweating now, which I would have done anyway because of the humidity.
“Where is the gold?”
“Right now it’s in the cargo hold of a Saudi royal air plane in a secured hangar in Boston. You’re welcome to go and get it.”
“Then why are you here? Selling gold is not hard. It’s also not illegal.”
“No. Well, selling gold isn’t. Where he got it from ... Bit of a problem. But not mine.”
“What is YOUR problem, Mister King?”
“My problem is that the Prince wants to convert it into banknotes. Very small denominations. Like, mostly ones.”
This, for the first time, actually seemed to surprise Arturo.
“Why?!”
“Because in some parts of the world a dollar bill, or even a five dollar bill, is a day’s pay. Or a week’s pay. And they have this whole ... caliphate thing going. The local currency isn’t worth much.”
Arturo rubbed his chin.
“So that is why you come to Vegas. Looking for someone with a lot of bills. Hmmm ... Makes sense, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“So why were you at the club?”
“Because ... Uhm ... Look, can you ... Don’t take it personal, okay?”
“Okay,” said Arturo, smiling in a way that promised he’d take anything I said VERY personal. I braced myself for another blow.
“Because Peter tells me that at this point in my acting career I only have a chance at playing crooks. Players. Mob bosses. But I don’t know that environment, you see? I’m a jazz lover, for fuck’s sake! That’s why I never get the part when I audition. So he said he’d take me to...”
I pretended to cower and kept looking nervously at the enforcer who had hit me before.
“To what?” asked Arturo.
“To some places where the people who ... uhm ... I should learn to imitate hang out. I mean, while we were here.”
“What does that have to do with the gold?”
“Nothing. But once I’ve found a casino that’s willing to exchange some paper, I still have a career I’m hoping to get back to. I’m only doing this to make a percentage, to have some income until my next big role. And Peter can help me on both counts. Life as a celebrity is quite expensive, you know.”
“Oh don’t I know it,” said Arturo, sarcastically wiggling his hands at shoulder height. He then gave a wink to the man standing behind me.
“Take Mr. Hollywood to the VIP lounge while I talk to his friend,” I heard him saying while a black, cotton bag was pulled over my head. (Honestly, who is so much into crime they carry black hoods around? I wouldn’t know where to get those. Maybe they bought a lot of bike helmets at one point?) Meaty hands moved under my armpits and my hands were tied in front of me.
“NOOOOOO!” I wailed, scared absolutely shitless and no longer acting one little bit. Seriously, I know I can dish it out but I didn’t have it in me to be stoically hauled off to God knows where. But I was, and I was advised in no uncertain terms to stop screaming, or they’d make me. And I believed them. I was marched around the building and then unexpectedly someone pulled down my head and kicked the back of my knees at the same time, which made me double over and fall into a car trunk.
I wasn’t really afraid of death. Not that I’m suicidal, but as an atheist I know I have nothing to fear. I won’t be judged and I also won’t be made to sit next to Sir Cliff Richard for eternity. But I was afraid there’d be a lot of discomfort and possibly even pain in my immediate future and those things do actually scare me. And I had rather a lot of time to think about it, although I did also manage to undo the rope around my hands, after which I took off the bag. It was all tied so loosely I’m sure they intended for me to do that, or didn’t much care. I didn’t have my phone on me and I also couldn’t find a wrench or something similar, or a latch to unlock the rear seat. I did find the lever to open the trunk from the inside, or rather I found a tiny metal stud: the release handle had been sawed off ... I guess I was dealing with true professionals here.
This was a very luxurious trunk, as they go. Well upholstered. Presumably the car it belonged to wasn’t expected to do much more than ferry useless layabouts and their designer luggage around. A soft trunk lining would prevent scuffs and scratches.
It was, however, very warm in here. And I’m not very tall, but I do have a certain width to me, which made moving around rather difficult. The car also started to drive just after I had managed to get the hood off, but there were muffled voices nearby and I was quite sure that even if I had found the latch to unlock the rear seats, I’d be pushing against the weight of one or two Mexican bandits, who would probably have something to say about it.
The ride was smooth and from what I could tell not extremely fast. This was good, I supposed. If it had been bumpy I’d have thought we were venturing off-road and nothing good ever happens off-road to people locked in trunks. I wondered if Peter was making a similar journey.
You can get used to anything. It was warm. I was tired, if not to say exhausted. I might be here for a while. And so I had almost begun to nod off when I was shaken up by the car driving over a very hefty speed bump, and then another one. Then we drove up a ramp, because I suddenly slid towards the back of the car. We made two turns, drove up another ramp and then the car stopped. Doors opened and I had no way to defend myself, but I still figured I’d take a swing at whoever opened the trunk lid.
They had expected it. As soon as it opened, a burly man wearing a pork pie hat stepped backwards, grinning. Figuring I’d have more reach when kicking I had laid down on my back and kicked like a mule. We were inside a concrete parking garage. Even its subdued illumination almost blinded me.
“Calm down man, you’re okay,” said another man, with a goatee. Easy for him to say: he was pointing a pistol at me, albeit very casually. Meanwhile I was splayed out like a frog ready to be dissected, my legs already outside the vehicle but the rest of me very much still inside. They let me wrestle myself out of there. It was so cool in here, compared to the car at least, it almost felt chilly.
I needed a moment to find my balance as I leaned against the car. The Mexicans seemed very understanding.
“Okay man, listen. You can go, okay? I got your wallet, I got your phone, I got your passport. You just fuck off home from here, okay? You’re still in Vegas.”
“Where is Mr. Fox?” I asked. My voice had been ruined, probably from throwing up.
“Just go back to your hotel and he’ll probably come find you. He’s talking to our boss right now. But don’t try to leave town okay? I’m serious. Don’t. Do I need to throw your shit on the floor or are you gonna play nice?”
He held out my phone and wallet. My passport was wedged in between.
“I’m playing nice,” I assured him. There was no longer any reason to assume they’d harm me.
“Good.”
The other guy, the one holding the pistol in a way that would allow him to slip it into the pocket of his knee-length cargo pants in half a second, looked at his fancy wrist watch.
“Boss says the other guy is getting released,” he told his colleague.
“There you go. See? No problems there. Now you head to that door, there’s a lift to the ground floor. Do it now, before we drive off.”
And so I did as I was told.
In the lift there was a mirror. Only now did I see I looked like shit. My clothes were crumpled up, I actually had something on my chin that may well have been vomit and the wig ... oh my dear God, the wig ... It was only partially attached. Half of it waved around. I looked like Gregor Fisher as The Baldy Man! But I couldn’t just rip it off, for fear of taking some skin off as well.
This was a mall. A tiny one, nowhere near the strip. All the shops were closed but the corridors were open so I could exit the building. It was around four a.m. and actually a very pleasant temperature. I loitered in the corridor while my phone rebooted and searched for a network. I sent Peter a text message to let him know I was safe, but was afraid calling him might cause him trouble. Amongst a number of small advertising signs posted next to the mall’s exit I located a taxi service. An hour later I walked back into the hotel, wearing the taxi driver’s baseball cap. I was politely stopped twice on my way to my room, but once I had been identified they treated me as if I had come in dressed in robes of state.
Peter had texted me back to report he was safe as well, so I took a shower, unglued my wig and only just about made it to my bed. My dreams were horrid. I woke up because I bumped my knee on a coffee table that was at least twenty metres from my bed. I guess my nights of terror, which had been such a nuisance to my girls back home, had started again.
Peter had let himself into my hotel room, which no longer even bothered me. I just caught sight of him having breakfast as I scurried to the bathroom.
“Morning.”
“Oh, hey! How’d you sleep?” he asked, as he poured himself coffee.
“Why do you even HAVE a hotel room if you’re constantly in mine?” I grunted, closing my bath robe.
“Is this an invitation for a sleepover?” he grinned.
“You might as well, there are three more bedrooms. So what the hell happened to you after I was dragged off?” I asked and took a scone from his tray. I was pretty sure I was paying for this breakfast anyway.
“Tea?”
“Mumf ... Yeff ... please.”
Peter poured tea. He looked as if he’d just come back from a relaxing vacation in the Maldives.
“Well, Don Arturo and I had a long discussion and I’m happy to say we have come to an arrangement. Here, have this scone as well.”
“Arrangement!?”
“Yes. He is willing to exchange the gold for dollar bills. Small denominations. Only ever so slightly tainted by cocaine, but then most US currency is.”
That’s true. Ninety percent of US banknotes have traces of coke on them. That war on drugs was only ever meant as a war on black people, after all.
“So we happened to run into a large crime boss? What are the odds...” I mumbled.
“Actually, we ran into a fixer for a Mexican cartel. Arturo answers to someone as well. He generally keeps his hands clean so he can’t be touched by American law enforcement, but his boss loves the idea of converting some of his money into gold. We even got a good conversion rate, because it benefits them as much as it does us. They’re drowning in bills over there, I’m told. They’ve literally got warehouses full of it and laundering it is a complete nightmare. So yeah, they’re interested in a deal. It will take a few days to get the required number of pallets shipped to the US, though. One crate of gold equals several crates of bank notes.”
“I see. Do you suppose we then have to count it?”
“Not up to me, is it? Or you. But you can tell your prince he’s got himself a deal.”
That cheered me up.
“Wow. So we’re dealing with a Mexican cartel now. Good thing Omar and Asim can call on Saudi security personnel, because that’s going to be dicey as hell. So what are the terms?”
“I wasn’t sure of all the numbers, so we’ll have to set up a meet between Arturo and ... which one is here?”
“Asim.”
“Okay. Because Arturo will probably want to see a lot more evidence before he proceeds. And a genuine Saudi prince. He’s only half convinced we weren’t lying. But I have the number of one of his lieutenants, so basically we can arrange a meeting at any time.”
I cut open my scone and smeared jam on it.
“Great! Well ... That was worth a trunk ride, I must say. Glad you showed up, you magnificent silver-tongued bastard!”
Peter doffed an imaginary cap.
“Never let it be said Keller & Fox doesn’t do everything in its power to meet the needs of our talent.”
“Well, quite! This day has turned around, I must say!”
“I agree. Now why don’t you get dressed and I can have a bit of a tinkle on that grand piano in there. Seems a shame not to use it even once.”
I was in a magnificent mood all of a sudden and like most people I really enjoy live music, so I had a quick shower, put on my last clean suit and called for housekeeping to come and collect the other two for dry cleaning. The Hispanic lady that came to our room found Peter and me belting out ‘If I Didn’t Have You’, which he could play by heart. He had called up the lyrics on his iPad on the music shelf and I took on the part of Sully, doing a reasonable impression of John Goodman’s voice. This triggered Peter, who made me go through my best impressions. I sang the song as Groucho, both Peter and Stewie Griffin, Charles Aznavour and Dean Martin. That lead to more songs and I had a great time singing classic songs such as Desafinado, You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You and more rat-pack era classics in either my own voice or some sort of cartoon character (Top Cat, Fred Flintstone, Snagglepuss, that lot) accompanied by Peter, that snivelling, backstabbing, underhanded, two-faced rat who could somehow play all these songs. Wait, what? Rat? Yes. I’ll get back to that...
When Peter left I wrote some notes in my journal, left a brief message to Kate on our hidden blog and called on Asim around half past ten. He was just having breakfast. As soon as I came in he launched into a story about how he had nearly been arrested last night at a casino just for asking to speak to the owner.
“And that’s after I spent twelve thousand dollars there, Carstairs!”
“Incredible, Your Royal Highness. Such shortsightedness. However, I may have some good news. Last night I visited a local jazz club and had a most interesting evening. In fact, I believe I may have met a gentleman who might be able to help us.”
When I was done with my story Asim was literally jumping for joy. I mean that: he was standing ON the sofa. The fact that I implied it was more than likely Arturo was a drug dealer didn’t bother him at all. I kept things vague, but strongly suggested a follow up meeting. Asim was more than keen but somehow seemed to see that as a social engagement. He wanted to have dinner with Arturo and his ‘friends’, so I had to explain to him that Arturo’s entourage wasn’t like a cluster of Arab men hanging out and shooting the breeze. (What’s a group of Arabs called? A caliphate!)
“But we can’t just sit down and talk business straight away, surely!” he objected.
“I’ll leave it up to you to assess that, Sir. But he will want to establish if he’s wasting his time. And there may be a degree of body searching involved. I was at one point treated rather suspiciously as well.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You see, he thought I was Martin King. The actor. But I introduced myself as ... well, as myself. Which caused some degree of suspicion among his associates. I was searched for the presence of listening devices. Which is odd because until then the only topic of conversation had been Thelonius Monk and his contributions to the standard jazz repertoire.”
“What? A monk?!”
“Yes, never mind Your Royal Highness. Let’s just say that if there is any socializing to be done, it will mostly be after you’ve come to an agreement. If not, I’ll leave that in your capable hands. In fact, I should very much like to be excluded from that part.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” grumbled Asim. “I won’t make you have fun, Carstairs. But this is great news. I’ll call Omar.”
“May I recommend that you do not until at least the basic outlines of an agreement have been reached? We may yet have to call on His Royal Highness to help verify the presence of the gold. That will be soon enough.”
“Maybe you are right, Carstairs. Still, this is a cause for celebration! What shall we do?”
“I’ll arrange the meeting, Sir. Where shall we meet?”
“They can come here! I’ll order a buffet from the hotel!”
“Perhaps they would prefer to meet at more neutral ground. With your permission I will suggest the Treasure Island hotel. The name seems appropriate. Or I’ll leave it to them to suggest a similar venue. Something public, at any rate.”
“Okay, okay. Well, if you don’t want to celebrate, perhaps you can visit with Lexy? I think she’s a bit bored.”
I stood up and clasped my hands.
“I’ll look in on her later today. Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
I briefly bowed my head, which I do very rarely. In response Asim tilted his head.
“You are very formal today, Carstairs?”
He was right. When it was just us I usually called him Asim and he called me Reginald.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
“No, I mean ... Oh, never mind. Go. Let me know their answer, okay?”
“Very Good, Your Royal Highness.”
Well, the day was my own. I made good use of it, editing some video and catching two hours of sleep. The hotel’s upload speed was atrocious, though. It would take ages to upload a copy of that footage to a secure server. Making a copy on a USB drive seemed pointless: those are a lot less secure than my laptop.
Peter relayed my suggestion about a meeting at the Treasure Island hotel and resort and reported that Arturo had no objections. I booked a conference room there. Kate had left a reply to my note, but its contents was too personal to repeat here. She was hiding things from me, I was sure of that. There were no hilarious anecdotes, no strange non sequiturs, no reports about Melody or even my parents. It was mostly about what she hoped and feared in relation to me, but how I shouldn’t worry about that. Good thing I read that message after I’d had some sleep. It made me determined to get home safely, even at the cost of my self-imposed mission. But whatever Omar was planning that necessitated sixty million in loose change was probably worth some extra inconvenience to me and my family, so for now I would stay put.
The meeting took place that same day at a ridiculous hour: eight p.m. Asim and one of his guards waited with me in the conference room while the other guard was placed in charge of Alexandra. They waited in one of the Treasure Islands restaurants, which I gather was uncomfortable for both of them. Arturo appeared with two of his most presentable people and point blank refused to set foot in the conference room. In full view of hotel staff and one or two tourists exploring the hotel all of us were searched and indeed Asim’s guard turned out to be armed. Well, that was his job. But Arturo didn’t seem to mind the weapon. He was more worried about listening devices and said as much. He then offered himself and his men up for a reciprocal search and our guard, thoroughly pissed off by now, didn’t hesitate for a moment to do so, even as Asim apologized.
“Shall we?” I then said, indicating the conference room door.
“Yeah, no. You never know who’s been in there. Did you guys eat?”
“He did,” said Asim, nodding at me. The fact that I prefer to eat at six p.m. continued to astound him.
“I bet he did!” said Arturo, playfully slapping my shoulder. “Lining your stomach, right?”
Asim gave me a curious glance.
“Indeed,” I answered, trying to skate past this bit of banter about my supposed recreational activities. “But we could get a table at the Italian Steak House?”
That was where Alexandra was waiting, which seemed convenient.
“Sounds good to me,” said Arturo. “I guess you won’t have the roast pork, huh?”
That was directed at Asim, who was currently wearing a white summer suit. I had to dissuade him from coming out in his Saudi robes as he might be mistaken for a novelty act, but now he looked like a well-heeled local and I was surprised Arturo even brought this up. But Asim is a people person and just smiled.
“Fortunately cows are not haram,” he chuckled. “Please, follow us! I will introduce you to Her Royal Highness princess Alexandra.”
I guess I had been wrong about Arturo’s desire to get down to business straight away. He and Asim seemed determined to get to know each other first and as I was seen as a bit of a mood killer, after about fifteen minutes Asim suggested that I take Alexandra to a different table. I wasn’t too pleased about that, because I wanted to hear what was being discussed. But Alexandra was clearly bored out of her mind and dressed very conservatively, which seemed to put Arturo off. And so I had little choice but to pretend I had no objections and took Alexandra to a smaller table for two, where I could at least keep an eye on the large booth occupied by Arturo, Asim and their four respective guards. Alexandra opened proceedings by scolding me for not responding to any of her messages, which had made it difficult, or at least somewhat scary, to sneak back into her room. Truth be told I had not even noticed her messages. She wanted to know where I had been, and I told her that was none of her business. All the while I kept an eye on Asim, whose body language I could read pretty well by now.
“I guess you already ate?” asked Alexandra, who had her back to them.
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