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the city, among tiny shops run by local Indians and Chinese. Specifically, Sandy’s sits squashed between a tire-parts store and the modest warehouse of a less than reputable import-export firm. No one knew exactly what Cheong-Sun imported and exported. It was deemed impolite to inquire, unless on serious business. Some opted for gold and jewelry, others favored simple woolens and other textiles. A few suggested women, but not too loudly, and never when passing in front of the building.
    The bar is marked by one large sign and four small ones. They give the structure its only hint of color and habitation. The large one nailed over the single entrance says simply, Sandy’s.
    This is more cryptic than descriptive because no one knows who Sandy is. No one’s ever met him. Some say he’s a retired prospector who made a fortune in diamonds in the Transvaal. He built Sandy’s out of spite when another bar in Nairobi refused to serve him, for what reason is obscure. Others claim the story is pure termite juice, that there never was a Sandy, that the story is whispered around by manager Sam Jumapili solely to bring in the curious.
    Oh, the other four signs? They say “Beer” in English, Swahili, Arabic, and French.
    Sandy’s interior was dominated by a long bar of solid teak mounted on mahogany and split bamboo. In front was a shoal of tiny open tables, nearly always full. In the rear Sandy’s broke into alcoves like a giant chambered nautilis. Behind those bamboo walls a great deal of merchandise legal, not so legal, and perverse exchanged hands, found buyers, was consigned to destinations distant and strange.
    Officially, Government House was the principal point of commercial operations in the Republic of Kenya. In reality, it was the back end of Sandy’s.
    Jumapili was happy to see him. After all, Barrett enjoyed a good reputation. He was even known to pay his bill now and then without having to be beaten up once. Such a startling aberration made him a customer to be valued.
    “Meester Barrett, Meester Barrett, so good to see you again! Everyone has heard of your unfortunate journey and your miraculous recovery! I myself am overwhelmed to find you looking so fit and—”
    “All right, awready! I don’t owe you that much. Got a booth?”
    The fat Chinese-Kenyan slid closer along the bar.
    “Not only do I have a booth for you, Meester Barrett, I have also a young lady.”
    “That’s swell of you, Sam, and I appreciate the thought. But right now I’m afraid I can only afford the booth. Besides, I’m really not looking for a woman just now.”
    “Ah, but Meester Barrett, that is it! She is looking for you!”
    Barrett smiled, shook his head in despair. “Where did this errant flower escape from?”
    “No, no, Meester Barrett, you got Sam all wrong. Honest injun, she come looking for you.”
    “Come on Sam, cut it out. I just got out of the gut factory. She’s not one of your regulars?”
    Jumapili shook his head . . . earnestly, it seemed to Barrett.
    “Well, that’s a hopeful sign. Pretty?”
    “A vision, Meester Barrett, a vision!”
    “Yeah, but whose? Rich?”
    Jumapili shrugged. “She seems to have money.”
    “That means she’s overpaid you already,” nodded Barrett. “Married?”
    “I saw no ring. Here, Barrett, why don’t you ask her yourself? She came to see you, not me.”
    “Okay, Fu Manchu.” Barrett took a friendly swing at the manager, who ducked affably. Jumapili led him to a booth near the back rooms.
    He pulled aside the curtain and the girl at the table looked up, startled. Dirty blond hair, blue eyes. Lips that belonged around more than the stub of a cigarette, and a more than competent if not spectacular body. Good boobs, okay hips, bad legs.
    Barrett had once been told by a lady friend that he looked at a woman like a piece of meat. At this he replied that, first of all, he couldn’t see her mind and second, the most obvious thing you see when you look at a person is the person