The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part
Eight)
“Now just a darn minute!” cried Piffy. This was getting
ridiculous! He shouldn’t even be here! How had he gotten into this mess? Good grief!
It was enough to make a grown man cry! All he had wanted to do was to earn a
few extra bucks. He had been a certified public accountant, a Marine Corps
close-combat instructor, a high school janitor and a rough-and-tumble Mayberry
County deputy sheriff under Wild Bill Bascomb; he had busted broncos and hunted
alligators in the Everglades. He was Mayberry County’s all-time Junior
Calf-Roping Champion and had won the State’s skeet shooting championship three
years in a row starting at the age of nine. He had withdrawn from competition
to give somebody else a chance. He craved excitement and adventure so he became
a private eye—a semi-hardboiled private eye. He didn’t like beating up people
for no reason at all but if there was one thing that really made him mad it was
honor killings. Just the thought of some clown from CAIR (Council on
American-Islamic Relations) trying to defend it made him see red so when the
boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club asked him to track down Yaser Abdel
Said, the notorious Dallas taxi-driver who had murdered his daughters, Sarah
and Amina Said, in a fit of Islamic rage he had jumped at the chance. He had
promised to pursue the wretch to the ends of the earth if necessary. He should
have been back by now regaling the boys at Joe’s Bar with the details of his
investigation and gabbing with Bill O’Reilly on the O’Reilly Factor.
But, no, here he was in an alley behind a London pub being horsewhipped by a runt—an imp, an imp no bigger than Opie Taylor had been in the 4th grade; okay, make that the 5th grade. It was humiliating! It had started innocently enough. A tip from Ka'b had sent him to London to contact Asma bint Marwan. He had done that. Then things began to go awry. Umyar, Mohammed’s favorite assassin, had chased him out of the Birmingham Central Mosque and then someone trashed his flat. He suspected Inspector Clouseau. After that it went from bad to worse. He accidentally threw a shoe at Imam Riyadh ul-Haq in front of the Birmingham Central Mosque and had been pursued by a mob of enraged Asians; he had taken refuge in a sleazy London pub where he made contact with a new and improved version of bint Marwan and was told that the story of the clippings from the Prophet’s toenails was not only true but that the clippings were still in existence and might very well be in London. Then Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour found him in the pub and dragged him out into the alley. They would have killed him had not Umyar showed up and run them off. But Umyar was not a gentle giant and in a fit of rage tried to kill Piffy and would have succeeded had it not been for the runt with the cat-o’-nine-tails.
But then, for no apparent reason, the runt turned the cat-o’-nine-tails on Piffy! Well, if that didn’t beat all! Piffy tried to defend himself as best he could but in no time at all the whip had cut his shirt to shreds and had left his chest crisscrossed with angry red welts!
“Who the Hell are you?” he gasped. “Lash La Rue?”
The imp paused. He looked the private eye up and down. “I am Algernon A. Algernon,” he said, “London agent for Abu Afaq.”
“Abu Afaq?” said Piffy. He had heard the name before. “What does Abu Afaq want with me?”
“I don’t know,” said the runt. He snapped his cat-o’-nine-tails harmlessly at the ground, studied the private detective from the corners of his eyes. “And who are you?” he asked.
“I am Bernard Piffy, private detective. I am on the trail of Yaser Abdel Said.”
“Piffy…Piffy…” mused Algernon A. Algernon. “The name is not familiar. Are you sure it’s Piffy? Let me check” He tucked the stock of his cat-o’-nine-tails into his belt, drew a scroll almost as long as he was tall from inside his shirt and producing a pair of spectacles as thick as the Hubble Telescope, perched them on the tip of his nose. He shook out the scroll, brought it up to his face. “Hmm…” he said. He pursed his lips, shook his head. It took some time. There were a lot of names on the list. When he had finished he tucked the scroll back inside his shirt. “No,” he said slowly. “You’re not on this list. You appear to be an innocent bystander. Serves you right for being in an alley behind a sleazy bar. Do you always hang out in such places? You ought to join the AA. I can get you an appointment.”
By now Piffy had lost his patience. “You moron!” he said. “I ought to trash you to within an inch of your miserable life!”
“Moron?” said the imp. “You are calling Algernon A. Algernon, London agent for Abu Afaq a moron?
Belatedly, Piffy realized he had made a mistake. After all, Algernon A. Algernon had saved his life. “Now calm down, little fella,” he said. “Calm down!”
But it was too late. The cat-o’-nine-tails was already out of Algernon’s belt. There was a fiendish glow in the runt’s eye and he was smiling—yes, smiling! And then he was after Piffy like a chicken after a June bug on a hot summer afternoon.
There wasn’t much Piffy could do. His shirt was in tatters, blood dribbled from a half-dozen cuts. He could retreat—that was about it. The cat-o’-nine-tails was popping at his toes like a string of angry 4th of July firecrackers. He backed down the alley, dodging one way and then the other. Good grief! Where was bint Marwan? He needed help! Forget the oscillating bra, he would settle for the halo. And where was Ka’b? Where, for that matter, was Yaser Abdel Said, the reason he was in London in the first place? Nothing like this had ever happened to him when he worked for Sheriff Wild Bill Bascomb in Mayberry County! This was Twilight Zone stuff, and he wasn’t Rod Serling, he was Bernard Piffy! He wanted out!
Fortunately Algernon A. Algernon was running out of steam. Maybe his heart wasn’t in it. He stalked his victim as if he didn’t really want to catch him. He would glower and cackle but the cat-o’-nine-tails had lost its snap. There were no showers of sparks.
From the corner of his eye, Piffy saw a man in a long brown robe enter the alley. He had a little potbelly, an inoffensive smile and the smoothest set of cheeks Piffy had seen since Uncle Fester was scaring the daylights our of him on The Addams Family. He seemed to exude benignity and benevolence with every step. He must have been a mendicant of some kind. His head was crowned by a monk’s tonsure and an aspergillum dangled from his belt.
Algernon looked the stranger over carefully. “Go away, Kuffar,” he said. He shook the cat-o’-nine-tails at the man.
The mendicant ignored Algernon. He looked at the private eye. “Are you Bernard Piffy?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Piffy.
“Go away!” ordered Algernon. “Can’t you see he’s busy?”
“Busy is as busy does,” said the mendicant. “I am not one to judge what busy is. I am here to save his life.”
“Who are you?” demanded Algernon.
“I am St. Anthony.”
“St. Anthony?” scoffed Algernon. “What’s the matter? Somebody lose his rosary? You had better beat it before I introduce you to Mr. Cat-o’-nine-tails.” He stepped toward the self-proclaimed Saint, drew the stock of his whip back against his shoulder.
“Oh, dear!” said St. Anthony. The aspergillum came out of his belt as if it were a six-shooter clearing Wyatt Earp's holster. He flicked it once, twice, at Algernon. “Oh, how I hate to do this,” he said.
Holy Water from the aspergillum splashed across Algernon’s face. The runt screamed, dropped his cat-o’-nine tails and fled blindly down the alley.
Piffy was dumbfounded. This couldn’t be happening! Was he dreaming? Was he hallucinating? What did they put in the near beer they served at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club? Everything had been upside down ever since. It must have been Cowsnofsky. He didn’t trust that man.
St. Anthony picked up the discarded cat-o’-nine-tails. “Oh, my,” he said. “The poor chap forgot his whip. I will have to send it to him. It looks like the Captain Bligh model. I didn’t know they were still using them.”
“Thank you,” said Piffy. “Thank you for saving me from a terrible beating.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” said St. Anthony, “thank Henrietta. She prayed to me to intercede for you.”
“Henrietta?” blinked Piffy. “I don’t know any Henrietta.”
“Oh, she hangs out at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club. She prayed to me to protect you from trials, woes and tribulations and I guess this fits in there somewhere.”
“I didn’t know St. Anthony was a guardian angel,” said Piffy.
“Oh, I’m not,” said St. Anthony. “I’m in the Lost and Found Department. If you lose something, pray to me. I’m better than a want ad and it doesn’t cost as much and it gives you a warm fuzzy feeling. This guardian angel stuff is new to me. I had my doubts about it but Henrietta is such a fine girl and she prayed so hard I thought I might give it a try and Gabe said it would be okay.” He grinned. “How am I doing?”
“Fine,” said Piffy. “But could you turn off your smile? It’s beginning to hurt my eyes.”
“I wish Henrietta wouldn’t hang out at that bar; she’s better than that,” said St. Anthony. “Now—is there anything else I can do for you? You haven’t lost a credit card or forgotten where you left your dentures? That’s a little joke, of course.”
“No,” said Piffy. “Everything’s under control.” Then he had a sudden thought, one he would later regret. “Suppose—” he began, “just suppose…”
“Yes?” prompted Saint Anthony.
“Suppose somebody asked you to find the clippings from Prophet’s toenails—could you do it?”
“The clippings from the Prophet’s toenails?” mused St. Anthony. “That’s a tall order but I supposed I could if I really tried. I can find anything—that’s what they say and who am I to argue. Besides, I think I know where some of the, ah, clippings are. Clippings—that’s an odd euphemism. They have been called many things but that’s the first time I’ve heard that one. Toenail clippings.” He paused. He looked Piffy up and down. “Now I must make this perfectly clear—are you asking me to find the, ah, clippings for you personally?”
“Ah, sort of,” said Piffy.
“They have been a cause of great evil, you know,” said St. Anthony. “I would not want to contribute to any sort of delinquency on your part. You must promise to use them only for the good of mankind. Oh, my! I believe I have just committed an oxymoron! The Prophet’s, ah, toenails clippings being used for the good of mankind!”
“If I could get my hands on them,” said Piffy, “would they help me find Yaser Abdel Said?”
“Possibly,” said St. Anthony. “If used properly.”
Piffy thought it over for a minute. “Okay,” he said. “How dangerous can it be?”
“Oh, quite dangerous,” said St. Anthony. “You will be butting heads with some nasty boys.”
Piffy already knew that. “I’ll have to risk it,” he said. It would be a lot easier with St. Anthony backing him up. Maybe the two of them could show that snooty bint Marwan a thing or two.
“What do you know about the fleas?” asked St. Anthony.
“Fleas?” said Piffy, “I don’t know anything about fleas.” What was St. Anthony talking about?
“Well,” said St. Anthony, “neither do I. It will be a learning experience for the both of us.” And he smiled brightly.
Yes, it would be a learning experience…
(To be continued)