My knuckles beat a tattoo on the wooden blue door to the house. No answer.I looked to the left. The truck had started to roll slowly down the street toward me.I knocked again, harder. Nothing.The truck was 15 meters away now.The door hinges rattled with my fist. With a squeal, the door came open a few inches, and I pushed my way through, without looking at who had opened it. My spine was crawling with fear.“Apologies,” I gasped. I slid my back against the wall. “I didn’t feel safe on the street.” I looked down. A small, hunched old man in a white thawb looked up quizzically. “Dr. Hawas?”“Yes. Mr. Henriksen?”“Yes.” I looked around. I was in a tiny courtyard. Stairs lead up to a small house; on the right, an archway led to a narrow alley. I dropped my voice into command tone. “Do you know who is outside, in the truck?”Hawas peeked out of the gunslit of the courtyard window, turning his twisted head carefully. “No. They could be Hamas. Maybe Islamic Jihad. Perhaps someone else. Better. Then, we settled on a way of sitting a little sideways, and the clients could explore your goodies in the dark. In a lot of ways, much better for the customers, and we got our private dance money as well. I kind of liked this club better, because most of the customers were tourists, and not truck drivers, like at the other club. The money was better there, because we could get 50% of the drinks consumed, and that added up in a hurry.The last straw was the night I worked my ass off on the lighted stage for over an hour.Some of the college girls were missing their turns, so they could turn lap dances in the back. The singles in my garter, in that hour, could not make up for even one private lap dance.When I passed Miss Cheerleader Misty in the hall, I told her she needed to get her ass up on the stage, and let the other girls make some money. She and two of her buddies ganged up on me later. They twisted my arm until I shed a tear or two in the dressing room. They bent me over, and.
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