Free Layover in Dubai by Dan Fesperman

liveliest he had been since dinner.
    “Now for the main event,” Charlie said. “Our descent into the notorious fleshpots of Bur Dubai. Driver, take us to Bank Street. My young friend here needs an education.”
    The cabbie nodded knowingly. Obviously it was a popular destination.
    Bur Dubai was a revelation. Neither glitzy nor upscale, its sidewalks teemed with men, most of them dark faces from the Indian subcontinent, lit by neon and clouded by the greasy smoke of kebab shops. The cab reached a large and crowded traffic circle.
    “So what’ll it be?” Charlie asked, gesturing in two directions. “The York Club or the Regal Plaza?”
    Men stood in long lines outside both places. A banner near the York’s entrance advertised TV showings of English football, but Sam doubted everyone had come to watch Tottenham Hotspur play the Blackburn Rovers.
    “How ’bout the Regal?” Sam said.
    Charlie frowned.
    “Sure. But if you want my advice …”
    “All right, then. The York.”
    Lieutenant Assad seized on this right away.
    “So your friend,
he
chose the York?”
    “I guess you could say that.”
    The York Hotel’s check-in desk was along the back wall. As with every other hotel in the city, from the poshest to the seediest, the lobby displayed a trio of portraits depicting Dubai’s past and present ruling sheikhs, all in a row, as ubiquitous as Big Brother.
    To the right was a small pub in which English football was indeed showing on a wide screen to a handful of customers. But the real action was just ahead on the left, where the crowd was lined up at a pay window by a stairwell.
    “Spot me a C-note,” Charlie said. “I’m afraid the York doesn’t take plastic.”
    “Fifty dirhams apiece for this dump?”
    “It’s not the wrapping that’s important. You’ll see.”
    They waited ten minutes to buy their tickets, stamped by the Ministry of Tourism. Then they joined a second long line of men waiting to pass through a metal detector.
    “The place must be mobbed,” Sam said.
    Charlie grinned widely.
    “And to think, we have the end of the Cold War to thank for this fine commercial establishment.”
    Sam frowned, trying to establish the connection.
    “The Russkies, old son! The moment the Iron Curtain fell, loose women from Poland to Hungary started lining up along the roads leading from every border crossing out of the West. Putting their best foot forward, so to speak, and showing plenty of leg. It didn’t take long for a few enterprising old secret policemen and KGB types to figure out that this was their future, and within a year or two they’d franchised their operations worldwide. As a quality control officer I have to admit it’s impressive. Even an auditor can probably appreciate its amazing efficiency.”
    “So this is a Mafia joint?”
    “The York? Certainly not. I’m sure its ownership papers are in perfect order.”
    “The clientele, then?”
    “Let’s just say that your initial assessment—‘The place must be mobbed’—was right on the money.”
    The line was moving faster now. A second bouncer had sprung into action with a security wand, doubling the intake of customers.
    “Doesn’t that bother you?” Sam asked.
    “You sound like one of those scolds who won’t shop in a Wal-Mart because they’re mean to their cashiers.” At this point Charlie had a manic gleam in his eye. Sam couldn’t tell if he was serious or was having a little fun at his expense. It might even have been anger. “They’re providing a service, Sam. In Dubai there are only two women for every three men, and heaven knows you’d certainly better not get caught slipping your hands up the veil of any Emirati woman. Let me put it this way. What’s more valuable in that kind of demographic—making a nifty little pill to help the menfolk get horny, the way we do at Pfluger Klaxon, or actually providing the means for those fellows to get their rocks off? Between us and them, I’d say we’ve got supply and