03.2 Photographer

Jamal shuffled them and Marina hissed in awe, “Put them away! People can see!” She noticed his large hands with thick long fingers and wrinkled knuckles.

“Take them,” he offered, “I’m not going to charge you.”

“I am not sure if I should keep them.”

“What is bothering you?”

“If my husband finds out, he won’t like it,” she vacillated.

“If only he finds out,” said Jamal.

“You cannot take my nude photos!” she protested, “Have you shown them to anyone?”

“Of course not.”

She picked the prints and stashed away in her bag, “I am going to burn them.”

“I still have the film,” he articulated.

“You must give me the film.”

“It comes with a price.”

“What is it that you want?”

“Shall we say a date,” he figured.

“I am not in such liberty, Mr Jamal,” she frowned.

“You should try it one day.”

“Huh!” she exclaimed jaw-dropped.

“Take it easy, Mary!” waved Jamal, “Tell me, what does your husband do?”

“Business. My husband is from Sharjah. We live in Saudi Arabia.”

“Is he rich?”

“You can say that,” she said, “he comes from a family holding some of those oilfields. I don’t know much about that but he has gone to Brazil.”

“On his private jet!”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“I wonder how you survive,” he began, “such a pretty girl! I see that you need it badly. Look, I’m gonna ask you for a date and you are not going to say no.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Mr Jamal, you know well, our tradition is very different from yours.”

“That’s what we are going to change.”

“Do you always win?”

“Ten out of ten,” he replied.

“Mr Jamal, I can’t go out.”

“If you want the film, you will have to,” he defied.

“You promise to give it to me!”

“I promise,” he said, “I put my number on the back of the envelope. You can call me anytime.”

She blinked shaking off her head, “Mr Jamal! His elder wife is trouble. She is kind of jealous of me,” she pleaded, “I can’t go out.”

“It is good to have a chat, walk around, enjoy the breeze.”

“Yes, I know but I mean, I cannot come out alone on my own,” she tried to explain.

“Yes, you can. If you want to stop these photographs turning poison on you.”

“What do you mean?” she quizzed.

“Getting published on paper.”

“Are you going to do that?”

“What do you think?”

She sat stunned

“Now you can come out,” said Jamal.

“Okay,” she sighed defeated, “I’ll think about it. I have to go back. Breakfast will start at sunset. If I’m not there, they will suspect of something and blame me for nothing.”

“That is our custom too,” he grinned.

They left Malibet only minutes before sundown. Marina spoke with uncertainty and gave no consent for a date.

 

In the morning he drove to Don Bosco to meet his friend, Danny Witt, a 72-year-old American retiree staying at a guesthouse on Cramer. He parked his Dodge beside an Alamo tree and crossed the sidewalk to the gate.

“Good Morning, Danny!” he greeted his friend who sat under a parasol in the backyard garden, reading a paper.

“Good Morning! Tony, you’re early!” he returned, “Help yourself to some rellenos!”

“Thanks,” he said, “Danny, take a look at this!” He removed a fresh set of prints from the envelope and passed, “This is a Moroccan woman staying at the Silverside. Married to an Arab. I asked for a date and she shunned.”

“It makes life difficult,” said Witt, “This woman is beautiful. What is her name?”

“Mary,” he told him, “She’s all coke and screw!”

“Bloody Mary!”

“I want to screw her to the bone!”

Witt laughed.

“She won’t settle,” he grunted, “If I can talk to her three times in a row, I can turn her on. Oh boy! She’s beautiful!” his hands open to hold the bounty of the globe.

“Take it easy!” cried Witt.

“I can’t. She’s got it. Something special. Something that puts the spell on me…”

“Go rape her!” uttered Witt.

“Rape her!” Jamal chuckled.

“Remember last time you’ve gone crazy after a girl,” reminded Witt, “seven years ago!”

“Santiago!”

“El Salvador,” corrected Witt.

“Danny! That was a Latina but this is an Arab. A very rich Arab.”

“Blackmail!”

“The thought has occurred to me,” he burbled getting up from the chair, “I’m having ideas too.”

“There is no easy way, Tony,” said Witt, “Kidnap that woman…”

“Kidnap!” Jamal cried in shock.

“Time passes. Settle down!”

“Well, I’ll be on my way.”

Jamal Carreon was a former CIA agent assigned to a diplomatic mission in Miami. In the 70’s, he travelled to South America under false names and false passports. He knew the streets of Nicaragua like the back of his hand. Later on, posted to Venezuela as a chauffeur to the American Ambassador. On one mission, he carried a top-secret document of a British-equipped ‘Defence Plan’ to establish a naval base in the Falklands for numerous strategic reasons and exposed to the Argentinean Government as advised by the CIA. Jamal Carreon even carried crack to the States in his diplomatic bag. He was a risk-taker. He was caught using a forged passport of a high-profile deputy of the Foreign Mission and apparently it pulled him out of job. Though, the real reason was somewhat different.

He was born in Dallas, TX, as Anthony Jamon Yunis with a distinctive Mediterranean tan, his roots obviously linked to the Middle East. He became a reporter for a while. Secured bonds on which his life depended mostly. His wife filed divorce while he was abroad. Jamal Carreon left two daughters in the States and got stuck in the south.