“Whether you did or not,” Ghail told him, “I did!”
He took out his cigarette case. He snapped it open. He began to prowl about the bridal chamber, blowing on the wick. A faint but perceptible aroma of lasf became noticeable. Ghail watched him, uncomprehending and embarrassed.
“Why do you do that, Tony?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s a sort of custom in my country,” said Tony awkwardly. “We don’t use lasf, of course. We use something else. It keeps away flies and mosquitoes. But I’m using this to keep away djinns.”
* * *
It was again night. Tony Gregg got out of a taxicab on lower East Broadway, in the Syrian quarter of New York, and paid off the driver. He helped a very pretty girl to the sidewalk and led her into a shishkebab restaurant.
The slick-haired proprietor grinned at him as he came to take his order.
“I remember you!” he said. “Mr. Emurian wanted to buy that gold piece you had! He offered you two thousan’ bucks. Ain’t that right?”
“That’s right,” said Tony. “Have you seen him lately?”
“Oh, sure,” said the proprietor. “He comes in most every night… hey! Here he comes now!”