The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 9: This Round Is on Me
Still September 11th, 2015. Four Seasons hotel, Las Vegas.
Peter showed up a few hours later, after having called my room to make sure I was there. I had started editing my video, even though he had counselled against its release or indeed its creation. It was a lot more work than I anticipated, and even though I’m familiar with the basics of editing I still found it tough going. On my new MacBook iMovie beckoned, but the free Windows Movie Maker would have to do. I didn’t want to risk transferring all my incriminating evidence to an unsecured machine. WMM proved very much unequal to the task, so now I was wasting time researching other editing software. OpenShot seemed a suitable candidate.
“Hi, Martin!”
“PETER! How did you get in?”
“I took a key card from the side table near the door. So, how are things at home?”
“Bloody awful, as it turns out. My son has forgotten who I am, my wife has taken to wearing tracksuits in the house and Kate and Kelly are at each other’s throats. Thank you so much for insisting I call them: I’d never have known!”
Peter shrugged.
“All the more reason to pack your bags and go home, I should think. So, what about it?”
“I’m staying here,” I said, bracing for another argument. There came none.
“Then so am I,” he simply said, and sat down in a comfortable leather seat.
“There’s no need. I appreciate you looking in, but I can manage.”
Peter wasn’t at all put off by that.
“It wouldn’t be fair to deprive you of my local knowledge and contacts, dear boy. So bring me up to speed: your prince is here with a bag of gold to ... to ... well?”
“First of all he’s not ‘my prince’. I’m not a Disney princess. Second, it’s a bit more than a bag. More of a crate, I imagine.”
“Wow. And where is it?”
“My guess would be the cargo hold of a Saudi royal jet, which is considered sovereign territory, currently parked at Logan airport. But I haven’t actually seen it.”
“Right. And they want to convert the gold into cash.”
“Correct. But small bills only. Ones, fives. Tens at most.”
“Weird,” said Peter. “Arms dealers take large bills no problem. Or cheques. Or actual gold, even. Are you sure this has something to do with Yemen?”
“No. I have no idea what it’s for. Yemen is speculation. Maybe it’s just to pay the rebels. Given the state of the Yemeni economy, I’m sure the US dollar is seen as a more robust currency.”
“Rebels? But ... isn’t Saudi Arabia on the side of the official government?”
“Oh, yes. Now that you mention it. Though one never quite knows what those regimes are up to. Well, other rebels then. Some Syrian faction. An African warlord they like the look of. I bet child soldiers aren’t expensive. A dollar a day would probably be quite generous for them. I’m pretty sure most couldn’t break a twenty dollar bill.”
Peter nodded and checked his watch.
“So when is your pri ... What’s his name again?”
“Asim.”
“When is Asim going to tell you what’s up?”
“I’m not sure. The thing is: he originally hired me as a business advisor. But in all the time I’ve been with him, never once has he asked me for advice. In fact, when he has a deal going he never even tells me about it.”
“That’s weird. Maybe he simply wants a butler and the ‘business advisor’ thing is just to placate you?”
“For someone who wants a butler he doesn’t ask for much butlering. He’s ordered me to stop bringing him breakfast in bed and if I never so much as boiled an egg he’d be fine with that, too. But whenever I ask him about it, he says it’s because I don’t speak Arabic or that I wouldn’t get along with the people he’s dealing with. And he seemed quite willing to pawn me off to his cousin when the princess needed a tutor.”
“Okay. Now, I’ve not seen you two interact, but would you say he likes you?”
“I daresay he does. We’re friends, in a way.”
Peter snorted.
“In a way? Wow. Martin, I’m ACTUALLY your friend and I can tell you it’s not the most rewarding relationship I’ve ever had. I’m closer to my gardener than I am to you. If you call him a friend ‘in a way’ that could just as easily mean you merely tolerate each other.”
“No, no, it’s not that. We share jokes, we’ve made some really enjoyable trips, he loves my cooking, we play console games from time to time ... I’d say we’re friends.”
“Hmmm. Martin, have you considered that Asim has gotten to know you over time and has decided that you’re not the right man to help him with his business?”
“That’s what I said!”
“No, I mean ... He might think you’re just too honest. If his deals are shady, he might feel you would not want anything to do with them.”
“He’s never even asked! Never even dropped so much as a hint.”
“No, but he might just be a very intuitive fellow. Have you presented Carstairs as someone who is up for anything?”
“How would I do that?”
“Well, if I were in your shoes I’d have let him catch me breaking the rules. Small stuff first. Having a smoke. Bringing in booze. Dirty magazines. Maybe buying something clearly meant for private use on the company card, you know? Stuff that tells him you’re not above a bit of ducking and diving, so to speak. Maybe something he can lord over you, so he thinks he has you over a barrel.”
“I can’t really think of anything. I mean, he’s caught me using his pool several times. But he’s absolutely fine with that. And he actually encourages me to use the credit card for just about anything. Short of human trafficking, I really don’t know what I could do that would upset him.”
Peter grinned.
“What doesn’t help, of course, is that Carstairs is just you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You are Carstairs. You don’t PLAY him: it’s just YOU with some affectations. Oh come on, you know it’s true! You like to pretend it’s a fully rounded character, but even if he is, he’s the spitting image of Martin King. And you may be a murderer, but Carstairs wouldn’t commit so much as a rolling stop. You’re completely by the book. Have you, in fact, ever made a private purchase with your company card? I mean, the ROYAL card?”
“No. Well, when I go grocery shopping it all goes on that card. Which might include a can of shaving cream for me, or a piece of Cheddar, or...”
Peter laughed to my face.
“So no, then. Nothing. Asim thinks Carstairs is a paragon of virtue, because that is what YOU are. Apart from the murdering, which he doesn’t know about. So obviously he’s hesitant about involving you in anything! Suppose he’s actually here to buy weapons. Just for argument’s sake: what would Carstairs have to say about that? Hmmm? Come on, Gielgud! Inhabit your character and workshop that for me. What was Carstairs’ childhood like? Did his dad give him a pea shooter? Did he ever shoplift?”
I rubbed my temples and sank back in my own chair. Peter had a point. In fact, he had figured out in a few minutes what I hadn’t thought of in months! I should have done a few dodgy things, and given Asim some rope to hang me with. It seemed so obvious now.
“Peter, you have hit the nail on the head.”
“Thanks. I knew I should have been more involved with this. You just haven’t got the people skills for this, Martin. You’re an IT guy. An economist. You like mathematics for fuck’s sake.”
“And apparently I’m a murderer, so perhaps you should stop talking,” I glowered.
Peter wasn’t impressed.
“You get enough fan mail as it is, even though you never seem to pick it up from the mail room. Friends are straight with each other. Now, let’s do lunch and talk strategy. I know just the place.”
“Peter, I’m not going out with you! What if we’re seen together? Didn’t we just establish I am a famously antisocial person with a severe social disability? How would I explain I met someone here I liked enough to take lunch with? And, kidding aside, I am now at risk of being recognised. Not by Americans, but certainly by the British. This city is teeming with them. If I set foot out of this room, I’ll be signing autographs in next to no time. Can’t we just order in?”
Peter let out an exasperated cross between a scream and a sigh.
“RAAAAH! Just my luck: I’m in Las Vegas with the world’s dullest man! Live a little, Martin! You can’t hide in this room all day. And what does it matter if you have to sign a few autographs? You’re supposed to be Martin King now, aren’t you? It would be great to have some Facebook posts from fans, instead of all those stories about you having run away from your wife and child. In fact, I’d be over the moon if you were willing to do a press conference.”
“Not in a million years. And I’m not dull. I’m just careful.”
“Oh yeah, really fucking careful, you are! And when was the last time you had fun, anyway?”
He caught me off-guard there.
“Fun ... Well, I...”
Peter just stood there, with an infuriatingly blank expression, watching me struggle to come up with something. After about ten seconds he almost imperceptibly raised his eyebrows.
“Are you thinking or ... buffering ... or what?” he asked.
“OH SHUT UP! Let me think,” I bellowed.
Nothing. But then, I was distracted by his pretend patience and calm, condescending smile.
“Sex counts,” he added, nonchalantly. “If that helps.”
“I READ! I’ve been reading! Dozens of books. With cups of tea, in a comfy chair. That was fun!”
“Oh, good. Reading. Yes. Many people come to Las Vegas hoping to finally finish that Dan Brown novel they started. The city is renowned for its reading rooms. So, no sex recently?”
“None of your business.”
“Hey, what about that French girl? The pastry chef?”
“Well, yes, but ... Look, if you’re only going to annoy me, then just sod off, okay? I’m not here to have fun. And anyway, I blew up a mosque recently. That was fun. Most of it, anyway. I avenged Diana’s death. Time well spent, I think.”
Peter rubbed his chin.
“Yeah ... That’s not really fun, though, is it? Not ‘fun’ in the traditional sense? That’s more like performing a self-imposed quest that some might ... not ME, obviously, but most courts and psychiatrists, and certainly many of your loved ones ... might see as a severe mental breakdown that has lead to mass murder.”
“It’s not mass murder! It’s tit for tat! That building was filled to the rafters with BOMBS. How is it not entirely justified that it blew up in their own faces instead of at some open air market in Iraq or on Tottenham Court Road?”
Peter held up his hands, with his palms towards me.
“Hey, hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m with you! You stood in my office a few months ago and made it quite clear that you were after blood. And I helped you. I might not have, if I’d known you’d turn it into the Al-Waco massacre, but here we are. If you say no women or children died, then I’m fine with it.”
“No women or children died in the fire. I’m not liable for the explosion that followed.”
“Yes, I can see you’re anxious to have that debate. My point is that you should maybe bottle it up for another time. And you certainly shouldn’t mention it to your buddies at the CIA or MI6 or whoever else the fuck you hang out with when you’re away, the Illuminati or something, because these things are frowned upon in polite society. And I know for a fact tit for tat doesn’t work. Have you heard of a place called ‘Northern Ireland’? They did tit for tat for three decades. It never stopped. Well, not because of that.”
I shrugged.
“Sure, fine.” I put on a morose voice: “I promise not to set fire to any more places of worship, okay?” I said, pretending to be a sulking teenager. I’m fairly sure Peter didn’t even notice.
“Oh, great. That doesn’t sound worrisome at all. Anyway, lunch? As we’re here? I’m partial to the Triple George. Great crab cakes. That’s the other side of town, but we can get a limo.”
“Did I not just explain that I am not in the mood to be Martin King today?”
“Yes, I have a fair idea of the mood you’re in. And I think it’s in the public interest to make sure you calm down and relax for a bit. Or...”
He fidgeted in his seat.
“Or what?”
“Look, I can arrange for some company if you like. If that makes you feel better.”
“What, security? Won’t that just attract more attention?”
He sighed.
“Not security, you ... Oh, I suppose this could take the rest of the day unless I get to the point: HOOKERS, Martin. I can get you a hooker. Or ten. Pretty as you like. If that’s what you need to relax, I can...”
“What are you, MENTAL? Are you a pimp now?”
“I run a talent agency! Fixing up one of our stars with some pussy is the very LEAST of what we do. Do you know how many girls I’ve invited to ‘meet the band’ backstage? Hundreds!”
I leaned back.
“Oh, lovely! Rape stories! Do go on!”
“Fuck you, Martin. You’re no saint. You play around. That journalist in London. Caroline, even. And you took that French girl to a hotel, didn’t you? Look, I don’t judge! I’m gay! I’ve had hookups during particularly long elevator rides. If you need to empty your ba...”
“Stop RIGHT there while your own balls are still attached, Peter. I’m a married man. I do not go looking for ‘pussy’, as you put it.”
“No, but you don’t exactly go out of your way to avoid it either.”
I had no comeback for that. It’s true that Mel and I had an ‘arrangement’, which is a term you usually hear in reference to marriages that are shot to hell anyway, but then again Mel and I had started something while I was also involved with another woman. I know for a fact that she has never been with another man since I met her, but my life is a little more ... complicated. Which is not to say I need Peter Fox or anyone else to get me laid.
“Could we just not have this conversation? I’ve just seen my wife wearing the Adidas equivalent of a burqa and Kelly is so angry with me that she attacked Kate.”
“Then GO HOME.”
“I can’t.”
“Then RELAX. Have some fun. It’s VEGAS.”
“I don’t drink. I don’t gamble. I don’t want a prostitute, and I certainly shouldn’t be eating as a form of entertainment. What else you got?”
“Uhm ... Do you like fountains?”
“It’s broad daylight.”
“Cirque du Soleil?”
I wiggled my flattened right hand and said:
“Meh ... There’s a time and a place for sassy French clowns. I may want to keep that in reserve for when I get stuck minding Princess Alexandra.”
“Thank God for that,” sighed Peter. “I’d have done it, but those shows give me the screaming heebie-jeebies. Well, that leaves ... uhm ... golf?”
“The best thing about losing my business was not having to play golf any more.”
“Shuffleboard?”
“Why are you hellbent on entertaining me?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think we’re friends. And then I think I might as well be friends with the statues in my garden for all the good it does me. Let’s just say I’d like to take a shot at dislodging the stick that’s up your arse. Your family worries about you. I like your family. Your mum is a sweetheart and your dad a fucking riot. Look, let’s give the casino a try! I understand you disapprove of gambling, but a low stakes table can still be a lot of fun! It’s on me, okay? Does that make it better? You get to keep the winnings.”
Time to come clean.
“Peter, I don’t know how to play those games. I only know about board games, because Kate used to love those. If there’s a casino here that offers Settlers of Catan I can have a go, but...”
“Wait wait wait wait wait!” said Peter, and jumped up. “You mean to tell me you don’t know how to play poker? Or blackjack?”
“I do not. Only Mau-Mau.”
“HOW? How does that happen? How do you live to be ... what, fifty-nine?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay, forty-five, and NOT learn to play poker with your buddies?”
“Well, here’s the thing: I have never particularly enjoyed the company of men. I never lived in student digs. I received dispensation from military service. I hate any kind of sporting activity and I do not drink. Whenever I was friendly with other men we’d generally play video games, work on software or mathematical problems or fix computer issues. I have never HAD poker buddies. Whenever I’m around a group of men, I’m generally their boss.”
“That is ... pathetic,” said Peter. He walked to a wooden cabinet and opened its doors, revealing a well-stocked liquor cabinet. A card fell out, which he picked up and read:
“‘Anything you use on the premises is complimentary. Any bottles removed from the room will be charged.’ Hmm ... I’m having this, then.”
He twisted the cap off a brown bottle with a golden label.
“Bit early to start drinking, isn’t it?” I couldn’t help saying. Without looking up he poured a glass and answered:
“Have I mentioned I’m in show business? Anyway, you’d drive any man to the bottle. Okay, fuck, call reception and have them buy and send up a copy of that Settlers game. And some ice. I give up.”
“There’s ice in the kitchen. I’ll get you some. And I didn’t say I like board games. I just know a couple, because Kate used to like them.”
“Oooooofcourse you’d play games you don’t even like with your kid sister,” he said to my back, as I left the room. “You’re THAT SORT OF MAN, AREN’T YOU?”
I like to think the world is full of fathers, brothers and uncles who will sit through a few boardgames to amuse a child they love. Peter was just in a weird mood. I fetched him some ice and brought a Diet Coke out for myself and then we sat down again.
“Thank you. Can I just revisit the hooker thing? You don’t have to fuck ‘em. You can just drop trou’ and they do the rest. Or maybe just get a massage. Hey, there’s a thing! We could go to a spa! There’s a fabulous one at...”
“I don’t go to spas.”
“Do you even know what they do at a spa?”
“Not exactly. And I never will. Because, and I may have mentioned this bef...”
“You don’t do spas, yes I got that. Here’s what it is: you have a sauna and then for a hour or so, someone nice pays exquisite detail to every square inch of your face and body, washes it cleaner than you’ve ever been, and applies a variety of creams and lotions to each different area. Then they cover your eyes with a warm towel and you take a short nap. What’s not to like?!”
“That sounds revolting, unless Melody does it. I’m not getting naked around anyone and I’m very particular about who gets to touch me.”
“Big surprise there,” muttered Peter into his glass. He necked it, got up and strolled into my bedroom.
“Need anything?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said, and looked around. “Just ... wondering if there’s a bed in there.”
“Of course there’s a bed in there! What else would there be?”
“I dunno. I was sort of expecting an alcove.”
“What?!”
“Some sort of charging infrastructure. Anyway, bollocks to this. You know how to reach me, so I’m going to go out and enjoy myself. You just sit there and read. Oh, one last thing: why is there a discharged smartwatch next to your bed?”
“Because I haven’t got a charger.”
“Buy a charger, then.”
“The charger costs nearly a million pounds and is currently sulking in a garage in Riyadh.”
Peter walked to my bed stand and picked up the watch.
“You mean Mr. Ed the talking car? That’s where you charge it?”
“Mrs. Ed, actually. Yes. It charges via induction, if my hands are on the steering wheel. Anyway, I have no use for it here. It lets me talk to the car and tells the time. My phone does that, too.”
“Buy a fucking Apple Watch charger,” said Peter, as he turned the watch around.
“It’s not an Apple Watch. Mine’s round.”
“Bet it fits the charger, though. Can I take this and see if it does? If so, I’ll get you a charger.”
“Sure, go ahead. Thanks.”
Peter headed to the door.
“See ya, Carstairs. Try not to obliterate any more houses of God in my absence, okay?”
“I will certainly try. Bye Peter. Thanks for dropping in. If I’m still here tomorrow perhaps we’ll meet for lunch, okay? If Asim is out of my hair.”
He just nodded absentmindedly, opened the door and sauntered towards the lift. I went back inside, booted up my laptop and continued work on the video. At two p.m. I had a Caesar salad delivered to my room. At a quarter past two I regretted not ordering a burger and fries with ketchup.
My back hurt. I’d been hunched over the laptop for a few hours, working on that video. It’s not my day job, editing. The point was not to make it look cool, but there was something of a narrative here: this was the story of a fanatical imam, an important part in the machinery of islamic terror, who had received his comeuppance. This would serve as a dire warning to Muslim fanatics that acts of violence can have grave repercussions, that the West is done turning the other cheek. Obviously I don’t speak for the entirety of Western society and I sure as hell couldn’t chase down and punish every terrorist by myself, but I felt it was important that there was an answer to those horrid videos of hostages getting beheaded or burned alive in cages.
Sadly, I needed a lot more footage to flesh out the story I wanted to tell. Over half the shots on my timeline were placeholders. There are websites with vast amounts of stock footage and I was keen to dip into those, but this was not the time to go shopping for videoclips. I saved my work, did some general fiddling with my machine to check the security and update some software and then found myself at a loose end. It was a warm day outside, but I had gotten used to those. Not that I was suddenly magically capable of walking through a forty degree Celsius (104 F) heat without sweating, but I had simply learned how to deal with it. The strip, or what I could see of it, was relatively quiet. There were lots of cars but few pedestrians. On the other side of the suite I had a view of the pool, or rather the Mandalay Bay Beach and aquarium. People were having a great time there, or so it seemed. The lazy river looked very inviting and I would probably also survive half an hour in a lounge chair, looking at the beautiful people and sipping chilled pineapple juice. If only I’d brought my swimming trunks...
There was still no word from Asim. Would he really spend the entire day asleep? And so, even though I dreaded the evening that lay ahead, I decided to text him.
“Good afternoon, are you up?”
He called me a minute later.
“Carstairs! What have you been up to? Are you near the hotel?”
“I’m at the hotel, actually. I never left.”
“No?!”
“No. I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Well, you have a credit card!”
“Yes, but I only brought one suitcase, so...”
He found this very funny, which was what I was aiming for. Asim’s good moods are really quite infectious and I could use some help to raise myself from the dark, brooding quagmire I had found myself in since speaking to ‘home’. I also hadn’t particularly enjoyed watching Imam Musa struggling to speak coherent sentences, with charred flesh on his arms and eyes that had lost all hope. Sure, I caused all that, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed watching it time and again. Most of that footage would have to be checked by a translator before I could complete my video, and a lot of what he had to say was of interest to intelligence agencies only. I had created a rough cut of the interview, which was ready to be revealed to MI6. I’d have sent it to them by now if not for Peter’s warning that even my allies might consider my actions too brutish and grotesque and that I should be a lot more discreet about this side project of mine.
We agreed that I should come over. For a second Asim suggested he’d come to me, but then it occurred to him that my room was probably a bit too small to be having people over. I didn’t see the need to correct him, dressed appropriately and made my way to his floor. The guard I had nicknamed Kojak eyed me suspiciously as I walked up to him. He sat on a very chintzy chair, obviously taken from the room, and was engaged in a book. On a narrow table next to him stood a large paper coffee mug with a lid on it. As I approached he got up and stood in the middle of the hallway, legs about a foot apart and his hands folded in front of his stomach, like a security guard at a club. Then he did this childish power play by not moving an inch as I approached, so I had to walk around him. For a second I considered kicking him in the nuts, because I respond very, very poorly to provocations such as these, but then I thought better of it. I smiled meekly.
“Hello. May I pass?”
He only nodded, but didn’t move. I pretended to squeeze myself between him and the wall, even though there was ample space even for me, and then I picked up his book behind his back and tossed it over his shoulder, as far down the corridor as I could. He couldn’t help himself and chased it. I picked up his coffee and poured half of it over his seat. It was absorbed almost immediately. Just before he picked up the book and turned around, wearing a furious expression, I put down the cup and said:
“Do not EVER provoke me like that. I don’t care which special unit you’re with, I will have your head on a skewer. Okay?”
I didn’t understand his answer because as we all know I do not speak Arabic worth a damn. He almost ran towards me, but at that moment Asim opened the door. He was dressed in jeans and a polo neck shirt, both no doubt from exclusive brands.
“Carstairs! Were you talking to me? What’s this? Muhammed?”
The guard complained about my stunt. Something about only doing his job and being provoked, I’m not entirely sure. Asim seemed stunned.
“Reggie? Is this true?”
“No, Your Royal Highness, it was just a simple misunderstanding! I accidentally touched his book with my elbow as I made my way past him. I really am very sorry. These things happen. Tell you what, I’ll buy you a coffee.”
The guard made further protests, but Asim considered the matter closed and practically pulled me into the room. He closed the door and asked if I wanted a drink, but I wasn’t paying attention. Sure enough, a muffled grunt and then some cursing came through the door just after Kojak had sat down with the book. The chair immediately gave up the hot liquid, soaking his bum. I moved to the back of the room while Asim opened the door again and had a heated debate with Kojak. After about a minute he joined me, grinning.
“He spilled coffee in his lap, heh heh heh. He tried to blame you for that, too. Well, we should be forgiving. It has been a long assignment for him. Two guards really aren’t enough for two prominent members of a royal house. I will request a few extra men, perhaps from the hotel.”
“Sorry, but why is he out there at all? This is the Four Seasons, not Motel 6.”
“Well, it’s not for me! But Alexandra’s room is next to mine.”
“And...” I said, but he wasn’t having it.
“No, Carstairs, no, no, no. I know what you think about this, but Omar has placed her in my care. You don’t know her even half as well as I do. She can’t go out on her own. Just can’t. You know there is a pool here where...”
He lowered his voice, even though we were alone in the room.
“The ladies ... They...”
“Swim?”
“No. It’s ... They call it a European style...”
“Breakfast?”
He playfully pushed my shoulder and grinned.
“You know what I mean. Women walk around naked! I mean, what if she ends up there?”
“First of all those women are not naked but topless. Second of all, it’s a restricted club; you don’t just wander in off the street. Third: I’m pretty sure she knows what breasts look like. Most women do. But I find it unlikely that as soon as you remove the guard from the corridor she will bolt out of the room, run to a topless pool and take her kit off. Which isn’t mandatory, by the way. But even if she did: she’s a GROWN WOMAN.”
Asim just laughed. He is largely immune to my impromptu speeches.
“It’s not just that, Carstairs. You have been in my country for long enough to understand this. But anyway, you can take her with you when you go out exploring tonight, I’m sure that is fine. Bring a magazine, because you will spend a lot of time hanging around in shops. And make sure they deliver to the hotel, or you will not have enough arms to carry everything, ha!”
“Excuse me: tonight? I’m to take Her Royal Highness with me?”
“Yes! Go see a show. The hotel can get you tickets for everything. Make sure to get three, because the guard comes along too.”
“But Sir ... Asim ... Weren’t we here to solve a problem?”
He sat down and casually pointed at a sofa opposite his. On a low table in front of him stood an empty juice glass, with a Kit Kat wrapper next to it.
I sat down too, but didn’t lean against the back of the sofa. Instead, I leaned forward.
“Which problem, Carstairs?” he asked.
“Well, you brought a plane load of gold you’re looking to exchange for dollar bills. Is that not a problem?”
“Yes. I’m looking for the right person. Well, not last night. Last night I just had some fun. But tonight I will start looking. It is a big town, you know. It may take a while.”
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