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Show Acting Alone Page 26 The book would probably bristle with gruesome, if questionable tales of gauntlets and cattleprods and bad food. It would only serve to exacerbate the traditional mid-American xenophobia and the anti-Muslim feeling currently flaring out in Reagan's America. It might even help bring about a nuclear showdown or something in the sensitive Persian Gulf region. (Wherever that was - somewhere over there, the other side of Wichita.) Sam thought of that nice Persian restaurateur back in Utah a few years ago who'd bought up the local synagogue, transformed it into an exotic private mideastern orgy house, and hired Sam as harpist in the little orchestra. That nice dark Mustafa Agahian man had been kind enough to pay Sam $30.00 per night (darn close to scale!), plus drinks and meals. Sam remembered how Mustafa used to sit down next to him during the orchestra's break time and discuss the recorded music from his homeland that was tinkling over the sound system. "That music is played on the tah, Sammy!" he'd say in a sad voice. "Doesn't the tah sound good?" And he'd quietly peer through a geometric stained-glass window at the firetrap apartment building full of Vietnamese refugees next door (another of his recent acquisitions). Mustafa had kept a big framed photograph of his uncle the Shah displayed - not prominently in the vestibule of the synagogue where the Shah's secret SAVAK police would see it and send favorable reports home - but in his office, for his own private adoration. A few times Sam had sneaked up to the door of that private office and had eavesdropped on Mustafa arguing about machinegun prices with someone named Mrs. Duff. Sam had considered calling the FBI or somebody, turning Mustafa in, and making a few bucks |