That chick raks!

Faster and faster the bass rhythm pulsed through the ceiling, and on the closed-circuit TV Fatima bin Laden saw her new friend Jennifer Hira, having lost the tiny top, writhing around a golden pole wearing nothing but 5-inch platform heels and a thong panty that looked very uncomfortable, to a song about a "Ballroom Blitz."

Mama Hanna poked her head in the door, in her smoky rasp said "One minute, let's go upstairs. You look perfect." She'd earlier helped Fatima find a traditional belly dance costume, sexy but ultimately revealing little but lithe arms and taut tummy.

"And here's those hankies you asked for." She handed Fatima two gauzy white handkerchiefs. "Used these myself years ago in San Francisco. Drove men wild. They'll bring you good luck, hon."

Mama Hanna led Fatima to the service elevator that would take them upstairs to the fifth floor and the Club Le Boing Boing casino. Uncle Osama said she might have to set aside some of her normal Muslim virtue to fulfill this mission, and so Fatima prayed the Al Baqara, Koran Surah 2:2-5, "to ward off evil ... certain of a hereafter. These depend on guidance from God. These are the successful." That's all she wanted, to be successful in her mission, faithful to Allah and Uncle Osama.

Culture shock barely describes Fatima's reaction to the casino -- electric testosterone in the air, slots ringing, the clack and clatter of a ball finding its place on a roulette wheel, the thwick sound of cards being shuffled, the clink of ice in tall glasses, well-dressed men and scantily clad women, drinks in their hands, calling "Just one time, baby, just once!" and "Busted! Bastard!" and "Sixteen, ooh-yeah!"

"We have a treat this evening," Mama Hanna announced from the stage. "Direct from Manila, Fatima!" So much for Fatima's prayer to be invisible, or at least just ignored.

"Don't have any traditional belly dance music, hon," Mama Hanna whispered as Fatima reached the stage. "But I think this one will do. It's called 'I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.' "

Somewhere a DJ cued U2's hit. It began with what sounded like a tabla drum, with a bit of zither and tambourine, a rising bass beat and more drums, and suddenly Fatima was back home. Half closing her eyes, she began to move easily as she had among other women all her life. They taught beladi, belly dance to Americans, in part to teach a virgin girl moves she'd need in her wedding bed. Later, the practiced stomach contractions made childbirth much easier. Now she danced also for the young Arab man she'd seen on TV, symbolic of her future. When she pulled the two hankies from her bra strap with her teeth, a guy at the bar called "That chick rocks!"

Of course I raks, Fatima thought, doing a shoulder shimmy. I dance.