She Majored in Sex Merchandising

"What in the hell!" I almost screamed as I trotted down the alley toward a bus stop that would take me to a private air service. If my friend Thelma had not called from her office at the School Administration Building as she literally ran out the door, I would be on my way to jail in cuffs."

My citadel took a devastating hit tonight. My quickly fading humiliation was not caused by the prospect of going to jail, though I'm no fool. No! It was the fact that the idiot Arch, the chief of police, and that damn woman cop had gotten onto my elevators with warrants to arrest me and search my office.

Don't you see! I'm connected! These low grade morons could never have obtained those warrants without someone warning me.

Then, too, the hell of it is I don't even know what they are alleging. Thelma only had time to say, "Run! Meet me in Caracas."

Damn! I've got to get to Thelma before she sets down in her home town. I'm certain Venezuela has an extradition treaty with the U.S. At the moment, I'm considering Casablanca; but I won't know for sure until I see my friend who works for the Moroccan Embassy here in Mexico City. I met her right after law school when we both were in London for a year of graduate study.

As I have stipulated, I am connected. Being naturally cautious and thankfully paranoid, I had stashed an impressive bit of "Mad Money" in the Seychelles. You see! We who always topped the Dean's List leave nothing to chance.

You don't become a lawyer and successfully create your own law firm if you lack the soul of a warrior and the cunning of a theologian. I had long since qualified in both categories.

In school, I excelled in all subject matter; but I slept with a prof or two in my determination to develop my seduction skills. Winning in life's forum is the only religion. Paradoxically, very few of the six billion souls on the planet even know that life has a forum.

Fortunately for those of us with genius IQ's, intensified instincts and and suppressed intuition, we discovered during gestation that sexuality is the enigmatic server. I consider it my Google.com, the eye of the needle through which all civilizing dictates must flow.

Let's get off the lofty philosophy. Just say that I can fuck anyone or anything into any shape or form I choose.

So! I knew instinctively from the moment puberty hit me that I was destined to be a "Player." "Player" is the only word for it. True! The word originated with the 21st Century meat market bars, lounges and luxury TGIF clubs; but the only place to learn about the invincible "Player" is the university. To become a masterful "Player," moreover, you must seek gainful employment in a brothel or establish yourself as an independent contractor, a classical courtesan known today as the "Escort."

My friend arrived at the bar 15 minutes late. I admit that I was beginning to feel the tension in the nervous system. Confidence that I would survive, however, was still strong.

Sofie entered the bar and swept toward me with strident purpose. Her ulterior motives were so obvious that I involuntarily cringed. After the obligatory hugs and squeals of reassurance of our history, I began to explain my dilemma and what I needed; but Sofia, who was mini dressed for partying, cut me off abruptly.

"I think the word is fortuitous," she said, quickly gulping her whisky.

"Fate has nothing to do with it, Sofie," I said emphatically, now apprehensive. Sofie is well documented as always having her feet in deep doo doo. Well, the truth is we had been companionable in a few London recreational episodes that were less than admirable.

"How else can you explain it?" she continued. "You show up in MXCity at the very moment I'm learning that I'm on the edge of disaster."

Raising an eyebrow and cocking my head to show skepticism, I communicated to my old friend that I had scanned the ten years since I last had seen her. I was on the same page.

"I've must have a fake passport, a visa to Morocco and some reliable contacts in Casablanca," I said succinctly. "I'm afraid it's serious, Sofie."

"Whatever it is, you've got it!" she gushed breathlessly. Sobering quickly, she said, "It'll cost. Everything in this place is for sale but what your asking will cost at least 10,000 pounds."

"I sense that the other show hasn't fallen," I said suspiciously. "What do I have to do for you?"

Sofie gulped her second shot of whisky. At length she said without the smirk, "I need your ass."

"When did you turn lez?" I asked.

"Not me!" she exclaimed. "At the embassy, I have some remarkable responsibilities."

As I listened intently, I sipped my gin and tonic. Sofie had graduated from London coed in deep excrement to veteran embassy procurer and corporate whore. It seems that a Moroccan smuggler who had always ingeniously kept himself in the "respectable category" had arrived in Mexico City, the melting pot for all grades of legal and illegal renegades, political scumbags and solid citizens with deep pockets looking for the "unthinkable."

"Okay! Sofie, I get it!" I responded wearily. "You need some classy pussy for these sewer rats."

Again Sofie slugged two ounces of whisky back, coughed and nodded.

"I had lined up some college chippies who were down here on holiday," she explained, suddenly mirroring the 43 year-old well used woman.

"And they got cold feet an hour before curtain time," I said, completing the story for her. "Let's get started I said, gathering my purse and jacket.

Before we stepped into the taxi, I paused and put a hand on Sofie's arm. I shifted to my most forbidding facade and austere courtroom voice.

"If I help you tonight," I said. "You deliver visa, fake passport and ID no later than this time tomorrow night."

"So help me!" she said, nodding solemnly. "You're stitching me on time but I'll get it done, I promise."

In a nondescript but clean hotel somewhere off the Promenade, we met our six companions in "Recreational Everything" and, since they spoke no English, we were into orgy mode without introductions. I must say, however, that the differences were interesting. There was no oral and no anal. They made up for the relief from the stress strain and pain of anal, however, by pounding my pussy mercilessly until time for breakfast.

To my dismay, I discovered as the night ticked that my old friend had lost her verve. Her enthusiasm was short lived. After midnight, she was devoid of her zeal and zest, but she persevered and continued doggedly until our carnal campaigners ceased the siege, dressed and quietly departed.

Though rendered and weakened, dark bags under her eyes that make-up failed to erase, Sofie dressed and left to be at work by 8 o'clock. We said nothing during that 15 minute interval. I watched her from the bed. She paused at the door and wiggled her fingers as a farewell. Though I realized that Sofie had changed, I immediately fell into a dreamless, untroubled and restorative sleep. Most certainly, having seen the morbid symptoms, I should have been more concerned about my friend.

It was after 4 o'clock when I awakened. The cleaning crew was asking when I would leave. So comprehensively mauled and exercised sexually, I knew from experience that the soreness would begin soon in the layer of tissue of my vagina's facade and by tomorrow would cause excruciating abdominal pain.

Disease was always a concern. Sofie had obtained the required medical clearance for the men. So! We had to trust the Mexican labs and hope. Our carnal practitioner had been informed, however, that under Mexican law, communicating a disease was a felony.

Of course, the clients were Moroccan, if Sofie's information was reliable. If they were truly Moroccan, and if they were infected, they couldn't be extradited to Mexico for trial. Morocco does not extradite.

Sofie was true to her word. I never saw Sofie again In Mexico City. At 8 p.m. a courier tapped on the door of my suite and delivered a package with a brief note from Sofie.

"You'll find everything you'll need to get into Casablanca. You saved me again with your fabulous...??? Thanks. Wonderful to see you. I'll see you soon in Casablanca. I'm going home. I'm tired. S.

My flight was registered and paid for in Sofie's name. Suddenly I realized that she had extended her diplomatic immunity to me if only briefly.

As it turned out, that few hours of confusion at the Mexico City airport was all I needed. They did suspect that my credentials were not in order; but they hesitated to approach me. Caution was dictated by the possibility that I truly was an employee of the Moroccan Embassy.

Mexican airport security agents were smart and diligent. They were forced to go through the appropriate steps when calling the embassy. Their inquiries were acknowledged, but Sofie told them repeatedly that embassy personnel were investigating my status. It would take time.

In the meantime, I stood as close to the loading ramp of the American Airline Boeing 777 as possible. Fortunately, they loaded and taxied away and raised into the air before the Mexican authorities confirmed that I was a fugitive from justice.

Once again, ironies of ironies, I would escape into the oblivion of the Casablanca Casbah aboard an American airliner.

********

CODY

Archie had given me indefinite leave.

"Cody, I'm not at all sure that I'm being a great friend by doing this," he said thoughtfully. "You will be out of your jurisdiction by several light years."

Arch emphasized that my badge would have no effect in Morocco. He was truly concerned for my welfare, and I appreciated the thought.

"I'm bringing her back," I said resolutely. "I can't rest until I see her in a cell for ten years."

"Not smart, Cody," Arch said sadly. "You are a good cop, Cody, and good cops don't hang onto a case like this."

"Let it go," Marge Campbell said as my flight was called for boarding."Nothing good can come of this, Cody, and I have an investment in keeping you alive."

As I kissed Marge's cheek, she shed a tear or two. I shook Arch's hand too long.

Finally I was off. I was a messenger to a soul in hell. We would change to a 777 at Kennedy in New York. Next we would change to an Airbus at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle for another hour and 20 minutes before rising for the last leg to Mohammed V at Casablanca.

It wasn't what I expected. Casablanca was in many perspectives a cosmetically ornate modern city. All of the impressive buildings, moreover were different from American building art. Casablanca's facade left no doubt that you were immersed in a Mohammedan culture.

Travel brochures would describe my hotel as "upscale but comfortable and affordable." Nothing was remarkably different from a mid priced hotel in England or the U.S. My surprise was observed by the concierge when I realized that almost all of the staff spoke understandable English.

When the concierge read the address I had scribbled on a piece of note paper, he momentarily frowned. When I asked if anything were wrong, he recovered quickly and smiled.

"No, I can get you a taxi to this address, sir," he said with a sudden formality that my cop instinct caught. I challenged him.

"I know the persons at this address, sir," he said with obvious reluctance. "I have known them for almost two years."

"What a coincidence," I responded, but I did not know what I meant.

"No coincidence, sir," he said. "The police have asked us to inform them when you arrived and ask you to contact them."

"I'm a police officer in the U.S.," I said. "Under the circumstances, I can understand their inviting me for a cup of coffee or tea."

"Yes! We all knew that you were a police officer," he said. "We were curious when you made your reservation and the police were here immediately with instructions."

"You said that you knew the people at this address," I persisted. "Surely your police would not care if you told me."

After a drifting silence and his fumbling with papers on his podium, he glanced about nervously. At length he motioned me to follow and led me to the garden,

"We are a tourist center," the concierge said. "In that capacity we are by nature an entertainment clearing house, so to speak."

In summary Charles Hassim, the concierge, described his role as "coordinator." He reluctantly told me that Anne and Sofie were independent contractors providing "entertainment planning and guidance for one or many."

"Stop playing games with me, Charles," I said, my voice free of rancor or threat. "I've been a cop for 20 years, so just talk straight."

"Prostitution is a serious crime in Morocco," he said as he fell silent and looked away. After a brief pause, he said, "I have many expenses, sire."

"Fair enough," I responded, handing him local money equaling $200.

"Thank you, sir," he said securing his wallet. "I have known the woman named Sofia since we were children in the same quarter of the city. About two years ago the woman named Anne came to us recommended by Sofia. About a month later Sofia appeared and the two of them registered with me as licensed guides."

When he paused and seemed conflicted, I probed.

"Let's cut to the chase, Charles," I said. "They sell sex under the cover of planning entertainment and tours, but they sell pussy by the pound."

"I do not understand your colloquialism," he said sullenly.

"Come on Charles," I coaxed. "You've been educated in London schools, and you know exactly what I'm saying."

"What will you say to our police?" he asked fearfully.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm here to take my wife home."

"The woman named Anne is your wife?" he asked incredulously. "How can a prostitute be married to a policeman?"

I could see that Charles had gone dry as a source of information. I took a taxi to the police offices and received a cordial welcome. My conversation with a high ranking official proved very useful.

"Lieutenant? How long has it been since you have seen your wife?" he asked as I was rising to take my leave.

"Almost two years," I answered slowly. He glanced away.

"There's more," I said.

"Your wife manages a prostitution business," he said, choosing his words with care. "It is carefully conceived as a 'hospitality and entertainment consulting service.' "

"Have you arrested her?" I asked.

"She was released from prison last week after serving six months of a five-year sentence."

Not only had I not expected this piece of news, but it did not make sense. He expressed his sympathy. As I stood assimilating all that I had learned, he spoke again.

"No. We did not pardon her, if that's your question," he said, again searching for words.

There was nothing more for me to say. Obviously, if he were willing to explain his position, he would have led into the subject differently.

"What happens if I go to this address," I asked, handing him the note paper.

After staring at the paper without seeing it, he returned to his seat and drummed his fingers on the table, obviously deep in thought. I perceived that I was about to receive the final piece in the puzzle of my long suffering drama.

"You would not be permitted to enter this house, "he said, avoiding my eyes."All persons at this address are under quarantine and cannot leave."

"Who lives there?" I asked.

"Your wife has the proprietary title of the property," he said. "It's quite large compared to the average home here, and until today there were 14 women in residence."

I raised my brow questioningly and waited.

"One died last night," he said.

I raised my brow once more and waited.

"No. It wasn't your wife," he said. "She's well."

At that point, the inspector explained that Anne would continue under house arrest and quarantine until she served her five-year sentence for pandering and prostitution?

"You are saying that I must come back four years from now," I said.

"No! By that time," he said," she will have been convicted of conspiring to violate immigration laws, illegally entering the country and forging official documents."

I appreciated the fact that he was not enjoying our conversation.

"No hope for her?" I asked. "Maybe time served and deportation?"

"No hope of reprieve or suspended sentence," he said. "In fact, she will be returned to prison once she has been free of the symptoms of the disease for one year."

When I said nothing, he paused the drumming of his fingers. Reluctantly breaking the silence, he freed me to go home with a blunted sense of satisfaction.

"Your wife very likely will be detained in Casablanca another 12 to 15 years," he said, his voice low and devoid of emotion.

It was a long flight back home. Once back on Texas soil, I assumed a inscrutable facade at work and a low key role in life.

Yes! I did visit my daughter at the minimum security state facility where she was serving her seven-year sentence. We were cordial. I suppose you could say we were at peace with each other; but she harbored anger and resentment that I had contributed to her prosecution and forced her mother to flee.

Of course, Lynn faced federal charges for flight to avoid prosecution.

My days at work were routine. I made no effort to avoid old friends and associates, but I knew that the ethos had changed.

Maybe it was time for me to retire. On my desk lay a letter offering me a teaching job at a nearby state university.

END