The Gulf by David Poyer Page A

Phelan wanted to try some right there. But at the same time he was afraid. Like he always was at a buy. The kids didn’t seem worried, though, even when someone walked by. They must have their protection behind them. He let his fingers brush the knife.
    â€œHow much is the brick?” he asked the kid.
    They only wanted three hundred for it. Phelan felt he’d stumbled onto good luck at last.
    Once the money was in their hands, it seemed as if the transaction was over. They turned instantly and walked away. He decided to imitate them. He jammed the opium down into his jeans and went back very fast through the chattering women, under the drone of the fans. When he hit sunlight again, he felt safer. He grinned, anticipating the high he was going to feel in a few minutes. No more cough syrup stolen from the ship’s pharmacy. No more Tylenol with codeine. Not for a long time.
    Then he realized he was lost.
    He’d come out a different exit and he didn’t know which one. The souk was all around him. This seemed to be the shoe department. The stalls were filled with boots, sandals, sneakers. He started walking, his fingers clamped inside his pocket. What a deal. He’d chew some first. He’d heard you shouldn’t do that; they rendered it with rat fat and you could get hepatitis. But just then, sweating and trembling, he didn’t care.
    There were no windows in the shoe stalls, but as he passed one he saw a mirror. An old man was looking at a pair of wing tips in it. They looked out of place under his baggy white pants and embroidered vest. Behind him in the mirror was Phelan, looking foreshortened and pinheaded, and behind him was a pink shirt.
    He halted, pretending to examine a pair of women’s pumps. In the mirror he saw two men now. One short, one tall. The short one was wearing the pink. He hadn’t seen the tall one before.
    Now he was happy there were people around. He had to get back to Paradise Street. From there, he could take a taxi, shake them, or if he had to, just go back to the ship. They couldn’t follow him aboard. On the other hand, he’d have to ditch or hide the opium then. He rubbed sweat off his forehead. He waved off the shoe vendor, who came out after him, and walked briskly around two corners and into a dead-end alley lined with wrecked cars piled four deep on either side.
    When he turned around, they were standing between him and the souk. There was no one else in sight, though he could hear the distant words of Madonna, “I’m a Material Girl,” from a cassette player somewhere.
    You or them, he thought, almost like hearing it. You or them.
    â€œWhat do you want?” he said.
    â€œWe are police,” said the tall Pak. He wasn’t really tall, but he was taller than Phelan. “We saw you buy the hashish. Give it to us.”
    â€œIt ain’t hash,” said Phelan in his soft, almost shy voice. “I mean, I didn’t buy nothing.”
    He knew they weren’t police. Then he wondered how many other American sailors had bought the brick in his pocket. Hell with this, he thought, fear and need turning into a murky, desperate rage. He wasn’t going to give it to them, that was all.
    He glanced around, making sure they were alone, and drew the blade.
    The short man took a gun out from underneath the loose shirt.
    Before he had it free, Phelan cut him across the belly. The Chinese knife was sharp enough that it didn’t hang up in the cloth. He shoved him into the taller Pak and got his boot on the dropped gun. The little Pak started screaming. The tall one had his knife out by then, a real pigsticker, a foot long and curved like a sickle. But he didn’t come in. Phelan thought about picking up the gun, but he didn’t know guns. He hadn’t done well with the .45 at boot camp. The blade felt good in his hand and he decided to stay with it.
    â€œYou want some, too?” he asked the tall Pak softly. The