Here’s an excerpt from a book I’m currently working on. The book centers on four remarkable, but misguided, young adults. They’re recruited surreptitiously to put their talents to good use. Or, at the very least, save their own lives.
The following is one character’s introductory chapter. If you’d like to read more, let me know, and I’d be glad to send you more of what I have.
Marquis Lestrange
Marquis Lestrange sat perched above the Casa del Habano overlooking the Jemaa el-Fnaa market in Marrakesh. He loved this vantage point. Not only could he see the entire square under the comfort of the green rooftop canopy. But the smell of fresh tobacco made him feel more alert, more daring for what he was about to do.
This was Marquis’s favorite part of the job. He scanned the market square carefully, looking for potential “clients” in the luxury of the shade. Tourists poured into the famous Moroccan square, purses and pockets just begging to be lightened ever so subtly. By day’s end, he’d have enough euros, dollars and pounds to eat for a week.
“Lassie, what do you think about that group of German tourists over in the south-west corner?” Marquis cringed. He hated the name Lassie almost as much as he hated his British street-urchin accomplice, Ollie.
“Trop risqué,” Marquis responded nonchalantly in his native French. “Germans are never good targets. Too smart.” Marquis also hated conversing in English, but Ollie knew no other language.
Marquis sometimes regretted taking on Ollie as a wingman. The dolt was a castoff from worthless parents wasting their lives in Gibraltar. He was born to a young couple who cared for nothing but themselves. And at the age of five, he was left on the streets of Marrakesh after a “holiday.” Why Marquis thought it was wise to bring him along, he couldn’t remember now. That was seven years ago. Ten-year-olds do the dumbest things.
Marquis went back to scanning the clientele. He saw a young couple he guessed were American, based on the man’s stupid baseball cap. They’d be an easy target. There was another, older couple, sitting at a café enjoying a coffee. The man had his phone and wallet sitting on the table. Marquis had a plan for that. There was a group of Japanese tourists listening to a guide not far from the café. Certainly, there were a few wallets needing lifting there.
Marquis quickly put the plan together in his head. Five targets should be enough. Afterward, he would escape down the Souk Laksour with Ollie heading the opposite direction. They’d meet up at the Pharmacie just a few blocks from the market.
After Marquis explained the plan to Ollie, the two went their separate ways. The thief hopped down from the top of the tobacco shop, agilely scaling the stucco wall. As he exited the side-alley, he grabbed an old tourist map from a garbage can without breaking stride. He folded it over a few times, cleared his throat, and put on his best desperation face.
He nimbly navigated the open market, making note of where the policiers were hanging out, harassing some street vendors selling “authentic” goods. Right away, Marquis noted the unusually hot sun, even for northern Africa, beating down on his dark skin. He hated the heat. But jet-lagged tourists usually hated it more. Tensions would run high quickly.
Marquis paused 10 feet from the café, observing the older couple. Dutch, he gathered, by the look and hard, guttural sounds they uttered. He admired the man’s Panama hat, wishing he could snag that in the process. Instead, he eyed the wallet and phone on the table.
Marquis glanced to his right to see Ollie in place about five feet behind the American couple, who looked lost staring down into a map. Everything was in place.
“Excusez-moi.” The older couple both looked up from their coffees and shared tangine of couscous and vegetables.
“Excusez-moi. Est-ce que vous parlez français?”
“Un peu,” the man responded. Marquis was impressed. The Dutch were always so well-educated.
“Do you speak English?” Marquis was hoping for better luck with his tertiary language.
“Yes, we do. Much better than French.” It was still the man talking, looking a bit uncertain. His eyes darted back and forth, as if he expected a trap.
If only you knew, Marquis thought.
“Thank you. I’m new to this city. Perhaps you could help me?”
The man looked confused. Why would a native Moroccan want the help from an obvious tourist?
Marquis expected this, though, and moved in quickly before the man could respond.
“I’m just looking for a hotel where I’m supposed to meet my friend,” Marquis said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it? It’s the Hotel Les Jardins.”
The older man still looked startled, as did his wife, sputtering to get words out. Marquis moved in for the lift.
“If you would just look at this map with me for a moment…” Marquis unfolded his map and held it over the table.
At that moment, his attention was broken as the American woman started yelling. Marquis looked over to see that she was covered vomit. The ever-obtuse Ollie. No subtly.
Marquis looked quickly back at the Dutch couple, smiled, and said, “Je vous remercie. I’ll find it on my own.”
He quickly turned away from the table and walked toward where the woman was still screaming in disbelief. Her husband was yelling at Ollie, who was lying on the ground holding his stomach. Marquis bumped into the man, then waded into the crowd of distracted Japanese tourists. It took him 14 seconds to emerge from the other side of 20 tourists. Six of them would be having a very lousy day once they checked their pockets.
As Marquis exited the plaza along the Souk Laksour, he dumped the Dutch man’s cell phone into a trash bin. He had no need of it, and it could only be traced. He then walked slowly toward the Pharmacie, where he’d meet back up with Ollie later that day.
Marquis glance back as he headed down a winding Marrakesh side street. He noted Ollie, now on his feet, stumbling as he made his way in the opposite direction. Marquis let himself smile just a bit. He may lack subtly, but he certainly does make a great wingman. Marquis thought maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on the boy. After all, he was only 12. Marquis, now 17, had been doing this as long as Ollie had been alive.
Still, thought Marquis, that nickname Lassie. I hate that name. Why does he call me that?
Marquis thought more about Ollie he headed to the Pharmacie. The two shared a tiny flat above the building, though to call is a flat was generous. It was a single room with a pile of blankets and pillows. There was no kitchen, no bathroom, one door and one window. But the owner of the building asked no questions, and Marquis couldn’t complain about the location. He rarely spent any time in the tiny room anyway, except to read on the rare rainy days, which occurred during the less-busy winter months anyway.
Marquis trudged up the stairs, wiping sweat from his forehead as he headed into his room. He closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it, expecting Ollie to return any minute. Marquis emptied his pockets into a pile on the floor, then waited for Ollie. He took the 10 steps it took to reach the window and looked out over the wind street below.
He could just see the Jemaa El-Fnaa, the massive market that Marrakesh was famous for. As evening approached, the square would be lit by lanterns, creating a stunning glow that lifted the market into the air and through Marquis’s window. The comfort of that glow helped Marquis sleep at night, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the comfort of knowing that the Jemaa would always provide a life for him. Or maybe it was the abundant life that passed through the square daily, people of all walks of life from around the world, people with their own worries, cares, triumphs and struggles.
Marquis hated his life. But it was all he knew. Leaving Marrakesh and going to another country wasn’t an option. So the glow of the market washed over him like a blanket in the night, reminding him that his home was always there.
Marquis waited for Ollie for a few hours. It was customary that the two of them went through their day’s haul together. Occasionally, Ollie did dawdle getting back, the dolt. But it never took him this long. Already, Marquis could see the first wisps of light emanating from the square in the distance. Ollie wouldn’t stay out after dark. He never did. He was too scared. But Marquis was losing patience.
He’d wait 10 more minutes, then go through the wallets himself. He sat down on the floor, organizing his lifts from the day. Eight billfolds. Eight individuals who, as we speak, are lamenting their ruined vacation, calling their banks back home, maybe even their embassies if their only form of identification was now on the floor of the small flat above the Pharmacie.
Ten minutes passed. Still no Ollie. Marquis’s annoyance was slowly becoming worry. He couldn’t stand Ollie. Yet he was surprised at how concerned he became with Ollie missing.
Instead of going through the wallets as he promised himself he’d do, Marquis found himself heading out into the evening to look for Ollie. Marrakesh was a large city – almost a million people – but Ollie never strayed more than a block from the market. For starters, he stood out, his blonde hair and relatively pale skin against a city of northern Africans. He’d be mistaken for a lost tourist at best if he wandered down the wrong street. But Ollie also understood, as dense as he was, that he has little common sense for a street urchin, a dangerous proposition in his line of work.
Marquis wandered for an hour, circling the streets around the Jemaa. The sun had set, with nothing more than the gloaming hovering above the rooftops to the west.
Marquis started to feel sick for his missing friend. Friend? he thought. I’ve never thought of Ollie that way. But he did now. And he made a promise that, if he found Ollie, if Ollie returned, he would be nicer to the boy.
Marquis decided that the best thing to do was to head back to his flat and wait for Ollie to return. He cut across the market, which was much less busy after sunset. The heat and humidity of the daytime had cooled quite a bit, making for an enjoyable evening. But Marquis could find no enjoyment in anything.
He quickened his pace. Maybe Ollie has already returned and he’s waiting for me, Marquis thought hopefully. He took the steps two at a time, almost running into the flat. He struggled to unlock the padlock on his door, then burst in when he finally managed the keys.
No Ollie.
It took only a split second to scan the room. But Ollie, clearly, had not returned.
Marquis walked over to where he’d arranged the wallets he’d lifted earlier in the day. He sat down and picked up the first one, weighing it in his hand. It felt heavy. Could be a good haul. Marquis opened it and first took out the ID. Willem Bosch. Nederland. Marquis was right.
He did this with all eight wallets, as was his custom. He stacked up the IDs, then placed them in a box in the corner of the room. He wasn’t sure why he did it. It was evidence, if anyone in Morocco ever cared to prosecute petty theft. But it helped ease Marquis’s conscience. Sometimes he thought, one day, if he ever made it out of this hell of a life he lived, he’d write and apology to all the victims he robbed over the years. For now, though, he had no choice. So he filled his little box with IDs, hoping it wouldn’t overflow before he had a chance to write those letters.
After he’d taken a close look at every ID he’d taken – one Dutch, one American, six Japanese – and place them in the corner, he went back through looking for cash. That was all he wanted. Everything else he’d dump tomorrow in various garbage cans around the city. Credit cards were too risky, traveler’s checks worthless, and photos too nostalgic. He wished there was a way to get the wallets – and the IDs – back to their rightful owners. But Marquis supposed every job came with its compromises. This was his.
Marquis mostly found euros, as people visiting Morocco were often stopping over for a day or two from Spain. There were a few dirhams, as well as pounds and dollars. With credit cards, Marquis was shocked at how much cash tourists still carried on their selves. Perhaps the prospect of losing some cash was better than losing various bank cards.
Marquis stacked the money from each wallet into a neat pile while stacking the wallets in another. He reached for the final wallet and opened it, only to find nothing.
Well, not nothing. But no cash. He looked through the few pockets in the wallet and found no cards, either. Nothing.
He was certain this had been the wallet of the Dutch man. Why would someone carry a wallet with nothing but ID?
Marquis opened the final pocket and found a small piece of paper. Despite the warm summer air, Marquis felt a chill run down his spine.
He nervously removed the paper and unfolded it, only to have his fears confirmed.
The letter read:
Ollie’s dead. If you want to live, be at the following address by midnight tonight:
162 Rue Al Qadi Ayad. 34B.