Things have gotten a little out of hand since the last report of the Camel Chronicles. It was discovered today that the whereabouts of Chafik "Akabah" Chamoun, owner of the Rest Haven Restaurant (the Khan of 61) cannot be accounted for. Earlier last week, his absence from the local diner went unnoticed as he was known to slip away now and then to feed nickels into one of those voracious carnivores of the mechanical kind found along the Mississippi River.* Acquaintances recall his chronic complaining about a pain in his lower back. His physician diagnosed an excessive green growth in his back pocket and prescribed periodic therapy up north to decrease its size. Whether or not the diagnosis was correct, the therapy was a proven success.
Now Chafik's wife Louise insisted that he didn't venture to the boats last week and that she had no clue as to his absence. She acted quite indifferent being well accustomed to his usual inert occupancy in the business.
Meanwhile, talk around the coffee tables soared to unprecedented hyperbole. Paul Jose reminded listeners of the Preacher's past connection with certain families of Italian descent in Buffalo, NY. About a month previous he had been seen lunching with one of the Bartolotti brothers in the restaurant and boasting of a recent paid-for addition to the church parsonage. "Remember how Joe Noe kept asking the Preacher for that telephone number?" Paul begged his audience. "Come to think of it, where is Joe anyway? Anyone seen Joe?"
Bobby Huggins' eyes kept glued to the open newspaper he held in both hands over his crossed legs. A funny grin was frozen on his face as if he knew something no one else knew. Nor did his absent stare fool those around him who knew that no public discourse circled his periphery without being seized by his keen mind. Stare at the paper as he would, everyone knew the cogs were turning somewhere behind that grin. But in a rare display of self-discipline, he bridled his terse tongue and pretended not to notice the hubbub of the less informed.
Just then Cotton Carnahan made his morning entrance. Now Cotton is distinguished for his dapper attire, daily sporting a different hat and wearing colorful coordinates not normally found in the common field-pea life of Delta farmers. In Chafik's words, "Cotton is not your typical redneck." Cotton is also a living legend among the crop dusters, being the patriarch and heroic survivor of numerous aeronautic exploits.
This morning, it occurred to the regular frequenters of the Khan that Cotton himself hadn't been seen for several days. His usual, unassuming quietness was disrupted when Willie Campassi outright asked him which was faster, a horse or a camel? Cotton's face grew pale and a cold sweat beaded up on his sparse forehead. He set his hat on a chair seat at the adjacent table and began a trance like tale.
"Four Fokker D-sevens were zeroing in from 10 o'clock. Two more were banking in on my right. I pulled hard on the stick, full throttle...." His glasses began to fog as he rambled on.
"No, no, Cotton!" interrupted Willie. "Not a Sopwith! A camel, with four legs, the animal kind!"
"Oh..." Cotton, hesitated, slowly regaining his composure, as if stepping out of the cockpit from a shaky landing.
"Have you seen Chafik?" Willie asked. "Have you seen Joe?"
Cotton's face turned pale again hinting that he knew something, but was unwilling to tell. Just then Jack Shannon entered the restaurant with his characteristic John Wayne strut and John Wayne voice. "Halloo!" he bellowed. "So what's hap'nin?" he asked, and then proceeded to sit down on Cotton's hat.
Cotton indignantly tugged the brim of his hat from under Shannon's bottom and headed out the door in an apparent fit. Like the sound of many waters, everyone seemed to talk at once, offering multitudinous explanations for the odd behavior of various Khan regulars. "Have you seen Chafik?" the question kept being asked.
One peculiar quandary concerned the strange appearance of a women named Sari Zahrem claiming to be an emissary from Saudi Arabia. She was seen dining with a gentleman friend Saturday at the noon feeding. "Where's Chafik?" she asked Louise, as if she had important dealings to discuss. "I dunn know..., " Louise moaned with inimical innocence. "Oh, he's around someplace," she uttered with little concern.
"Well we had an arrangement," confided the stranger in lowered tones and she unfolded an odd parchment with some kind of image of a camel on it. Somewhat startled, Louise quickly took the document, folded it, and stuffed it in her apron. Without another word she packaged two of the Khan's famous cream pies and handed them to the lady who, with her friend, quickly departed.
Doyle Varner, over in the corner, (who, by the way, always has a wary eye for anyone that looks or talks oriental; see part 2) pondered the matter deeply. "Strange," he thought, "I didn't think Arabs had female diplomats, and, come to think of it, aren't they supposed to walk fifteen paces behind a man?" These disturbing thoughts caused him to slip out of the restaurant through the kitchen exit.
Investigations by the Register confirmed Doyle's suspicion: Sari Zahrem was not an Arabian emissary at all; she was really Lorri Cook, an impostor from Pittsburg, PA with ties to Atlantic City. What this all means is yet to be discovered.
Another strange phenomenon was the uncharacteristic behavior of funeral director Benard Nowell and his assistant Jerry Gardner. Monday, they entered the cafe for lunch in the most gleeful spirit, laughing and joking and smelling of formaldehyde. Jerry nonchalantly sat right down in Chafik's chair (a seat customarily reserved for "Akabah" alone) as if Chafik was nonexistent, nor to be expected any time soon.
Those who have a propensity for catching the breeze of other's conversations reported hearing intermittent phrases such as: "six feet under, gone but not forgotten, Jimmy Hoffa," etc. When asked how the wet concrete got on Jerry's heel, he replied, "Me and Jimmy Walker were watching them pour a new retaining wall over at the new City Hall building early this morning." Benard burst out in a hearty "haw, haw, haw!" and the inquisitors were left to their own musings.
Concerning the Online Register Opinion Poll, voting booths closed last night and the final tally is in. As all media sources had predicted, the horse easily won, 58% to 42%. The puzzling question is, how could the horse win by such a large margin when no one we asked claims he or she voted for it? Is this the first horse to win and election overwhelmingly without anyone voting for it? It is quite obvious to all that the issue will not rest with an election. An actual race is inevitable.
