“Eileen’s miserable,” the stewardess with long blond hair noted.

“I thought she was marrying Biff the Stiff,” the short-haired brunette replied.

“She was, then he went off to the Bahamas with his secretary.”

“It could have been worse. She might have married him,” the blonde said.

“Perhaps you nice ladies would like cocktails. I have big expense account,” the Levantine said, flashing a thick roll of riyals.

“Get stuffed, tubby,” the brunette snapped. The Levantine grinned widely enough for them to assay the gold in his teeth. He pulled out his wallet and flashed an accordion of credit cards.

“I flew in with Fast Freddy. He told me all about it,” the blonde said.

“You know why they call him ‘Fast Freddy?’” the brunette said with a mischievous smile. The blonde shook her head and the brunette whispered something that had the two of them cackling like the hags in Macbeth.

“God!” the brunette exclaimed, sucking on her straw like a teeny-bopper.

“Yes, Moslems are very religious peoples,” the Levantine breathlessly put in.

The brunette glared at the Levantine crowding close to her. “Do you mind?” she snapped. He moved back a fraction of an inch, his face beaming with good will.

“All the good men are taken,” the blonde said glumly.

“The bastards!” the brunette said and with a sigh told the Levantine she was drinking Singapore Slings, as the Scorpion walked by. They didn’t bother to glance at him. Apparently, the market in men had turned distinctly bearish. He elbowed his way to the bar and ordered a whisky and soda.

“I’m getting the hell outa this here place tomorrow,” grumbled a big red-faced American in a tartan sports jacket to his left, in a drawl that reached back to East Texas. “I been in so many damn offices and paid so much ‘baksheesh,’” I plumb forgot who got what. And I’m still waitin’ on the lousy contract.”

“You need a local agent,” an expensively dressed Arab said with oily sympathy. He was probably a Palestinian, the New Jews of the Middle East, the Scorpion mused.

“Shee-yit, boy. That’s what I need here, shee-yit,” the Texan said, and ordered another bourbon and branch.

“Things are different here, my friend,” the Palestinian put in. He had smooth skin and a thin moustache which made him look like the toy groom on a wedding cake. He was right, the Scorpion thought. A local agent knew who to pay baksheesh to and how much to skim off the top. Sometimes, they were even worth it.

“I ain’t your friend, pard,” the American said indistinctly to his drink.

The Palestinian’s smile never wavered, but it grew brittle.

“The minister whose approval you seek is the nephew of my half-brother Achmet. That is a very sound basis for friendship,” the Palestinian said, his smile broadening, and the Scorpion knew the Palestinian had just mentally raised the price.

“I might be interested,” the American muttered casually.