air-conditioner hadn't carried away all of Booty's perfume. Gus said, "Ah, friendship. Wonderful
Varia et mutabilis semper femina."
Nick had to grin. The lad was observant and his Latin wasn't bad. How would you translate that?
Woman is always a switcheroo?
"I prefer happy clients," Nick said. "How's Janet doing."
Gus poured himself coffee. "She's a sweet jellyroll. There's lipstick on one of these cups. You leave clues all over."
"No, there isn't" Nick did not waste a glance at the buffet. "She didn't put any on before she left. All the other girls — er, satisfied with Edman's efforts?"
"They're absolutely enthusiastic about the place. Not a single damn complaint, which you know is unusual. Last night was a free night so that they could explore restaurants if they wanted to. Every one of them had a date with one of the colonial types and they lapped it up."
"Ian Masters put his boys up to it?"
Gus shrugged. "Could be. I encourage it. And if Masters puts a few dinner checks on the account, I never object as long as the tour has gone well."
"Are we still leaving Salisbury this afternoon?"
"Yes. We fly to Bulawayo and take the morning train to the game preserve."
"Can you get along without me?" Nick snapped off the lights and threw open the balcony door. Bright sun and fresh air flooded the room. He gave Gus a cigarette, lit one himself. "I'll join you at Wankie. I want to check into the gold situation more thoroughly. We'll beat the bastards yet. They've got a gravy train going and don't want to let us ride."
"Sure." Gus shrugged. "It's all routine. Masters has an office in Bulawayo that handles the transfers there." Actually, although he liked Nick, he was pleased to lose him — for long periods or short. He preferred to dispense tips without observation — you could pick up quite a percentage over the long pull without shorting the waiters and porters, and there was a lovely shop in Bulawayo where women usually lost all thrift-control and spent dollars like dimes. They bought Sandawana emeralds, copperwarc, and antelope and zebra-skin items in such quantity he always had to arrange a separate baggage shipment. He had a commission arrangement with the shop. Last time through his cut had been $240. Not bad for a one-hour stop. "Be careful, Nick. The way Wilson talked this time was a lot different from when I did business with him before. Man, what a scrap you put on!" He shook his head at the recollection. "He's become — dangerous, I think."
"So you got that impression too, did you?" Nick winced as he probed his sore ribs. That flop from the roof at van Prez's hadn't helped any. "That guy can be black murder. You mean you didn't notice it before? When you bought the thirty-dollar-an-ounce gold?"
Gus flushed. "I figured — aw hell, I don't know what I figured. This thing has started swinging. I'd just as soon drop it, I think, if you figure we'll get jammed up bad if anything goes wrong. I'm willing to take chances, but I like to watch the odds."
"Wilson sounded like he meant it when he told us to forget the gold business. But we know he must have found a helluva market since you were here last. First he sells you gold cheap, so he must have had it spilling out of his treasure rooms. Then he doesn't have any at any price. He's found a pipeline, or his associates have. Let's find out what it is, if we can."
"Do you still believe there are Golden Tusks. Andy?"
"Nope." It was a rather simple catch question and Nick gave a straight answer. Gus wanted to find out if he was working with a realist. They might have dummied a few up and painted the gold white. Hollow tusks of gold to beat the sanctions and help smuggle the stuff into India or wherever. Even London. But now I think your friend in India is right. There's plenty coming out of Rhodesia in nice four-hundred-ounce bars. Notice he didn't say kilos or gram-weights or jockey leads or any of the slang terms the smugglers use. Nice, big standard bars. Yummie.
Varia et mutabilis semper femina."
Nick had to grin. The lad was observant and his Latin wasn't bad. How would you translate that?
Woman is always a switcheroo?
"I prefer happy clients," Nick said. "How's Janet doing."
Gus poured himself coffee. "She's a sweet jellyroll. There's lipstick on one of these cups. You leave clues all over."
"No, there isn't" Nick did not waste a glance at the buffet. "She didn't put any on before she left. All the other girls — er, satisfied with Edman's efforts?"
"They're absolutely enthusiastic about the place. Not a single damn complaint, which you know is unusual. Last night was a free night so that they could explore restaurants if they wanted to. Every one of them had a date with one of the colonial types and they lapped it up."
"Ian Masters put his boys up to it?"
Gus shrugged. "Could be. I encourage it. And if Masters puts a few dinner checks on the account, I never object as long as the tour has gone well."
"Are we still leaving Salisbury this afternoon?"
"Yes. We fly to Bulawayo and take the morning train to the game preserve."
"Can you get along without me?" Nick snapped off the lights and threw open the balcony door. Bright sun and fresh air flooded the room. He gave Gus a cigarette, lit one himself. "I'll join you at Wankie. I want to check into the gold situation more thoroughly. We'll beat the bastards yet. They've got a gravy train going and don't want to let us ride."
"Sure." Gus shrugged. "It's all routine. Masters has an office in Bulawayo that handles the transfers there." Actually, although he liked Nick, he was pleased to lose him — for long periods or short. He preferred to dispense tips without observation — you could pick up quite a percentage over the long pull without shorting the waiters and porters, and there was a lovely shop in Bulawayo where women usually lost all thrift-control and spent dollars like dimes. They bought Sandawana emeralds, copperwarc, and antelope and zebra-skin items in such quantity he always had to arrange a separate baggage shipment. He had a commission arrangement with the shop. Last time through his cut had been $240. Not bad for a one-hour stop. "Be careful, Nick. The way Wilson talked this time was a lot different from when I did business with him before. Man, what a scrap you put on!" He shook his head at the recollection. "He's become — dangerous, I think."
"So you got that impression too, did you?" Nick winced as he probed his sore ribs. That flop from the roof at van Prez's hadn't helped any. "That guy can be black murder. You mean you didn't notice it before? When you bought the thirty-dollar-an-ounce gold?"
Gus flushed. "I figured — aw hell, I don't know what I figured. This thing has started swinging. I'd just as soon drop it, I think, if you figure we'll get jammed up bad if anything goes wrong. I'm willing to take chances, but I like to watch the odds."
"Wilson sounded like he meant it when he told us to forget the gold business. But we know he must have found a helluva market since you were here last. First he sells you gold cheap, so he must have had it spilling out of his treasure rooms. Then he doesn't have any at any price. He's found a pipeline, or his associates have. Let's find out what it is, if we can."
"Do you still believe there are Golden Tusks. Andy?"
"Nope." It was a rather simple catch question and Nick gave a straight answer. Gus wanted to find out if he was working with a realist. They might have dummied a few up and painted the gold white. Hollow tusks of gold to beat the sanctions and help smuggle the stuff into India or wherever. Even London. But now I think your friend in India is right. There's plenty coming out of Rhodesia in nice four-hundred-ounce bars. Notice he didn't say kilos or gram-weights or jockey leads or any of the slang terms the smugglers use. Nice, big standard bars. Yummie.
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