The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page A

peasant!”
    Now it was Moosa who shrugged. “Do as you like, old man,” he intoned in a bored voice. “I’ll buy my dollars somewhere—if not from you, then from someone else. Thank you for the tea.” He rose to his feet as if to leave.
    The merchant’s eyes widened. He had not expected such a calm rebuff to his offensive. “Wait,” he stammered as Moosa turned to leave, “300,000 tomans?”
    Moosa glanced back at him, nodding slightly.
    “Well, if things are as you say …” The moneychanger tugged at his beard, frowning, “How about—eight tomans, seven rials ?” He cut his eyes upward hopefully.
    “Eight and five,” Moosa shot back, without moving.
    The merchant grimaced and looked away. Presently he stood, and gripped Moosa’s hand. “I like you, boy—you remind me of my eldest son. Won’t you take eight and seven? It’s below the market rate, and I can give you my oath before Allah for that….”
    “Eight and six,” countered Moosa, “and I won’t pay any more.” He tried to pull his hand away from the haggling merchant.
    The older man sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Ah, well, you are a stubborn and heartless young man, but … all right. Eight and six.”
    Moosa watched as he went to a padlocked chest in the rear of the room. Glancing back at Moosa a final time, the moneychanger shook his head in regret, took a key from the chain about his neck, and bent toward the lock.

    Moosa walked through the bazaar with a spring in his step. He felt elated; he had bargained a better rate for the currency exchange, and felt sure he could squeeze a few more decent trades out of the same fellow. If not, he could use the lower rate as a bargaining tool with other moneychangers.
    Just as he reached the entrance to the covered bazaar, his eye fell on a display case near the outside street. It contained handguns: Berettas, Walthers, Kalashnikovs, and a few Smith and Wessons. Entranced, Moosa walked over to the case, admiring the dark sleekness of the weapons, the sensuality of their curves, and magnetic aura of nascent danger they emitted. He remembered the helpless feeling he had when the pasdars came for his father, and the muttered threat of Nathan Moosovi.
    He glanced up at the attendant. “How much for the guns?” he asked.

TWELVE
    Ezra stepped gingerly among the bodies, making his way toward a small vacant space along the far wall of the cell. Some of the men on the floor looked like corpses; their jaws were slack, their eyes vacant. Only their faint, shallow breathing gave any indication they still lived.
    Ezra reached the far corner, carefully lowering himself so as to avoid touching the foul-smelling wretch on his right. To his left, a prisoner who looked more alive than most of the others turned his head as Ezra sat down.
    “I think I know you,” the fellow said slowly.
    Ezra looked at his cell mate, puzzled at being recognized by someone in this hellhole. “Were you speaking to me?”
    “Yes, I’ve seen you somewhere. Are you a doctor perhaps?”
    “Not a doctor, but I did own a pharmacy—on Khosrow Nasser.”
    “Yes! That’s it!” the man said, with something like enthusiasm. “You’re the fellow who gives medicine to the poor. You helped a relative of mine, some time ago. I brought my aunt to you when a friend of ours recommended you.” The prisoner grinned, obviously pleased with himself for making the connection. Then he looked back at Ezra with a puzzled expression on his face. “What are you doing in this rat’s nest?”
    “I don’t know,” said Ezra dejectedly. “The pasdars wouldn’t tell me, other than to say it was up to me to prove my innocence to the tribunal.”
    “Those motherless curs,” spat the other man. “They don’t need a reason. Khomeini is their reason…. Khomeini and their bellies.” Again he looked at Ezra. “What is your name?”
    “Ezra Solaiman.”
    “Ah!” A look of grim illumination dawned upon the face of Ezra’s cell mate. “A