Dr. Death

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The cab jolted to a sudden stop at the entrance to Rue Maloush. The driver turned his shaved head toward me and blinked his bloodshot eyes. He'd been smoking too much kif.

"Bad street," he growled sullenly. "I don't go in. You want to go in, you walk."

I grinned. Even hardened Arab residents of Tangier avoided the Rue Maloush, a narrow, twisting, badly lit and worse smelling alley in the middle of the medina, Tangier's version of a casbah. But I'd seen worse. And I had business there. I paid the driver, threw him a five-dirham tip, and got out. He slammed the car into gear and was a hundred yards away before I had time to light a cigarette.

"You American? You want to have good time?"

The kids popped out of nowhere and followed me as I walked. They were no more than eight or nine years old, dressed in filthy, ragged djellabas, and looked like all the other scrawny kids that pop out of nowhere in Tangier, Casablanca, Damascus, and a dozen other Arab cities.

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