Free The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Page B

place had only two redeemable features. First, it was air-conditioned, and second, Haroon himself was an astute gentleman with a delightful sense of humor.
    It also happened to be where I picked up my mail once a month, sparse as it was. My mother’s events-of-home letter, and a trust fund check, arrived the third Wednesday of each month. I would slip in during the early afternoon quiet hours, chat with the owner over a cold smoothie, gather my envelope, and slip discreetly out before locals and tourists arrived.
    Maumed Haroon was as affable a nightclub owner as one could imagine. He memorized the names of each customer that entered his establishment, especially blond European or American girls, and called out to them in cheery fashion the instant they crossed his doorstep. For the young and trendy Varanasis who desired a modern identity, the hailing of their names was a delight that kept them coming back night after night. Haroon would spin jokes with the perfect mix of bawdiness and good timing, serve iced coffee and neon colored cocktails, while slapping large amounts of money into his two cash registers every night of the week but Tuesday.
    “Bhim!!” Maumed called as I entered. I looked over to the indelible smile. It was seven fifty-five on a Monday evening and the place was already humming. The DJ, fortunately, was on a break, and I, already filled with Sahr’s succulent saag pilau, wanted only a mango shake. In the semi-light of the wall sconces, I watched as he waved me over, re-set a blender, and deposited two iced gins in front of a neatly dressed young man leaning jauntily against the rail that ran the length of the bar. Haroon was demonstrating his capacity for multi-tasking with a single objective, the accumulation of money.
    “And how is my favorite Sanskrit scholar this evening? It has been too long since you have visited. And not your unusual hour. So, My Friend, are you ready to publish your Bhavabuti play and make us ten thousand crore rupees?” Haroon’s hand popped out at me from an embroidered silk sleeve. He wore light-gray slacks and a long-wasted salmon-colored kurta that announced both worldliness and homeland tradition--the secret to his style, displaying chic in two cultures.
    I gave his hand a familiar press. “Not quite, Maumed. I’m still reworking the last scene, and pretty certain the hard-cover sales won’t lift it onto a best seller list when I’m done.”
    He grinned. “But it has all the makings of a money-making story. Love, jealousy, death, and plenty of sex.” Without taking his eyes off me, he flashed four fingers, a fist, and a V to a helper standing in front of a row of blenders. The assistant, interpreting the signals, began mixing four rum daiquiris.
    “That may be, Maumed, but I don’t think even the loosest poetic license will allow me to reinterpret the sex and violence our modern world seems to want these days.”
    He chuckled. “So, we release it as a farcical screenplay with a caste of silly characters and find a Bollywood producer to make the whole thing. Still make enough money for our Club Med vacation.”
    Haroon’s idea of heaven on earth was a month’s stay at any resort where bikini clad women actually shaved their legs. Somewhere in his office I knew he had a cache of brochures from Super Club Hedonism II, Sandals, and a dozen others. For some reason he’d decided that I was acquainted with them all and would be his spiritual guide in a quest to find the best one. I hadn’t the heart to tell him otherwise.
    “Believe me, Maumed, if you find a producer for this, I will happily sign the contract.”
    “And then we can go to Sandals?”
    “Then we can go to Sandals.” While Maumed personally prepared my mango shake, I looked around at the complex, and it was just that, a complex of six connected rooms of various size and shape that Haroon had acquired as his wealth had grown and his neighbor’s had diminished. Eight large tables, a bar, and a