The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 11)
“Well, if that doesn’t beat all!” said the Professor. He shook his head, finished reading the article, shook his head again, folded the newspaper carefully, laid it on the bar and took up his beer. “I don’t believe it!” he said.
“What’s that?” said Joe, owner of Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club.
“Piffy,” said the Professor.
“What about Piffy?” Joe asked. “Did Cowsnofsky and Henrietta forget to pick him up at the airport this morning?”
The Professor snorted. “Fat chance of that!” he said. “Piffy’s been arrested for breaking into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office at Lambeth Palace.”
“Our Piffy?” said Joe. “Are you sure?”
“Is there any other?” said the Professor.
Piffy
was Bernard Piffy, the
private detective the boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club had hired to track down the notorious Yaser Abdel Said, the Dallas cabdriver who had murdered his
two daughters, Sarah and Amina Said, in a fit of Islamic Rage and had then run
off to parts unknown. Piffy was not a hard-boiled private eye. No one would
mistake him for Mike
Hammer or Race
Williams. He was more like Junior
Tracy with muscles. He was tougher than Inspector Clouseau
and dressed more sensibly. He was as smart as Nick and Nora Charles.
He was more like Bulldog
Drummond. He was dogged, determined, persistent, relentless and
pertinacious. He was like the son Charlie Chan never talked
about. And he had a sense of humor. Picture Spanky and Alfalfa making
believe they were Abbott and Costello meeting the Frankenstein monster. He was
a laugh a minute. He was Mayberry County’s all time Junior Calf-Roping
Champion. He had busted broncos, wrestled alligators and had made his own
silver bullets. He had been a close-combat instructor in the Marine Corps. The
last thing Harry Truman said on his death bed was, “They ought to promote that
Piffy guy.”
And he
had the ability to make waves—Mike Hammer said Piffy was the only man he knew
who could make waves standing in an empty bathtub. He had insulted the
notorious Riyadh
ul-Haq; he had been chased through the streets and back alleys of London by
assorted thugs, jinns and assassins; he had spent all the money the boys at the
bar had been able to scrape together and he wasn’t a bit closer to finding
Yaser Abdel Said than the day he started. Out of sorts and out of money, he had
given up, thrown in the towel; he had called it quits and was supposedly on his
way back to the States. Cowsnofsky and Henrietta had gone to the airport to
pick him up. And then he had been arrested for breaking into the Archbishop of
Canterbury’s office at Lambeth Palace.
There
was a sudden clamor
at the door. It was Cowsnofsky. He was furious. He stormed angrily into the bar,
plopped down on
his favorite stool. “He didn’t show! The son of a gun didn’t show!” he
exclaimed. “He wasn’t on the plane. Hank said to wait for the next flight. But
he wasn’t on that one either! Can you beat that? I was in that airport six
hours sitting alongside a transvestite—a transvestite, your nephew, Joe—and he
was wearing a tight skirt! Everybody in the airport was staring at me! Wait
till I get my hands on that guy!”
“Staring
at you?” said the Professor. “Are you sure it wasn’t at Henrietta?”
“It doesn’t matter,” thundered Cowsnofsky. “I was embarrassed! Wait till I get my hands on that Piffy!”
“If you want Piffy, you’ll have to go to England,” said Joe. “He’s still there. He’s in jail. He was arrested for breaking into the Archbishop of Cantilever’s office in Lambeth.”
“You’re kidding!” said Cowsnofsky.
They were silent for a moment. The Professor looked up and down the bar. “Well,” he said slowly, “I guess we’ll have to bail him out.”
“Oh, no!” said Joe. “That means me!”
Piffy was furious. He paced back and forth across the tiny cell—five steps in one direction, five steps in the other. He would have climbed the walls if he could have. He had been left holding the bag! He could scarcely contain his rage. Algernon A. Algernon had got away scot-free, and with a stack of the Archbishop’s private papers if the stories he was hearing were true, and here he was, the one and only Bernard Piffy, the pride and joy of Mayberry County, locked in a bleeping jail cell under a suicide watch! A suicide watch! Who did they think he was? Michael Jackson? He hadn’t meant it when he had said he would kill himself before he would put on one of them ugly orange prison jump suits. Sure, he had tripped and tore the crotch out of one of the dang things but they didn’t have to put him under a suicide watch!
He should have got on that plane; he shouldn’t have listened to Inspector Clouseau; he shouldn’t have listened to Algernon A. Algernon; he shouldn’t have listened to Asma bint Marwan; he shouldn’t have listened to anybody!
A guard coming down the corridor interrupted the nightmarish reverie. He stopped in front of Piffy’s cell. “They will see you now,” he said.
It was about time! Piffy stopped pacing, the door opened and two screws entered the cell. Screws! He was already calling them screws! Sixteen hours in the slammer and he was talking like Jimmy Cagney!
He was escorted to an elevator. They went down six floors to what looked like a bomb shelter. He thought he heard water trickling. Das Fuhrer must have spent his last hours in a place just like this. The screws led him to the end of a dimly lit corridor and dumped him in a room one of them referred to as “M’s office.” They closed the door and he was alone. For a minute he thought he was in a guest room at the Playboy Mansion. Everything seemed to be painted mellow yellow, the décor was Marquis de Sade; there was a massive portrait of Pantagruel on one wall and one of Dionysus on the other. He could very well be in Matt Helm's boudoir. Then he noticed a shriveled-up old man sitting behind a desk. He blinked.
“Bond,” said the man, “James Bond.”
Piffy was stunned. “You’re James Bond?” he whispered hoarsely.
“You were expecting Sean Connery?” said the old man.
“No, but…gosh, what happened to you? You’re…you’re so old and shriveled! Mike Hammer could break you in two with his little finger.”
“It was the babes,” whispered Bond. “I couldn’t keep up. I could handle the Goldfingers and the Dr. Nos, but not the babes—they got the better of me.” He sighed. “If Her Majesty should be so kind, I hope to attend a refresher course for Double Naught Spies at the Playboy Mansion next fall.”
“Really?” said Piffy. “The Playboy Mansion?” He couldn’t get over it—this little old man, this shriveled-up Peewee Herman, this dried-up remnant of Pa Kettle was the legendary James Bond! If Jethro Bodine could see this pathetic Andy Warhol caricature of the great 007 it would break his heart! A fry cook had more appeal.
“What do you know about Inspector Clouseau and the fleas?” asked Bond.
“What am I supposed to know?” said a wary Piffy.
“You look like a man I can trust,” said Bond.
“I should say so,” said Piffy. “Ten years as Deputy Sheriff to Wild Bill Bascomb of Mayberry County, ten years in the private detective business and three months with the JBGGC, one of the newest and most aggressive citizen’s crime fighting groups in America.” (The JBGGC stood for the boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club. It was Cowsnofsky’s idea and Piffy’s received his checks from that source. The Professor said the initials gave their little group cache)
Bond was not deceived. “I’ve been informed about the boys at the bar,” he said. “Now sit down and I will clue you in.”
Piffy sat down. There were a lot of things he didn’t know and he was anxious to be clued in. And clued in he was.
First, there was Inspector Clouseau. The Keepers of the Fleas had kidnapped Clouseau more than a decade ago! Yes, the Keepers of the Fleas! They had kept Clouseau in an altered state most of that time. They would send him out on missions when it was too risky to use one of their own operatives. They had used him to keep an eye on Piffy. Then Clouseau had escaped and had told Piffy about the fleas. Most of this didn’t make much sense to Piffy. He told 007 to cut to the chase.
“What would you say if I told you somebody stole the fleas from the Keepers and the Keepers want them back?” said Bond.
There wasn’t much Piffy could say to that. They talked for another half-our, Bond taking an occasional gulp of air from a Mountain High Handheld oxygen system. He didn’t need it, he said, but it invigorated him. And if you’re going to have sex under water he warned, do it in a diving bell. And stay away from sexual escapades in outer space. When he asked Piffy what he did for excitement the man from JBGGC said he rode bucking broncos, wrestled alligators and shot flies off fence posts at a hundred yards.
“Commendable,” said Bond. “Do you know Remington Steele?”
“No,” said Piffy.
“A shame,” said Bond.
When the interview was finished 007 looked Piffy over carefully. No one would mistake Sheriff Wild Bill Bascomb’s deputy for Mike Hammer. Still the man had possibilities—anybody who would break into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office had potential. And he had thrown a shoe at Sheikh Ryadh ul-Haq. He would do. “There’s a man waiting for you in the Annex,” he said. He tapped a button on a remote control and a section of the wall slid open.
This was more like it thought Piffy. The Annex! He stepped
into a small room and there was Algernon A. Algernon! Yes—the one and only Algernon
A. Algernon!
“You!” said Piffy. He lurched toward the runt, fists clenched, nostrils flaring—for a fraction of a second he was the Frankenstein monster; no, no, it was worse than that, he was Mike Hammer; Mike Hammer with a mad on!
Algernon backed away from Piffy. “Take it easy!” he squealed. “I’ve arranged for your release. You’re a free man!”
Piffy grimaced, dropped his hands to his sides.
“You brought this on yourself,” said Algernon. “Didn’t I tell you not to push forward against that wall?” He paused; he had something in his hand. “Look, I’ve brought you a sandwich. I was told you like ham.”
Piffy stopped. The mad was over. How could anyone stay angry with this weird little bastard? It couldn’t be done. He eyed the sandwich. Was that really ham? After sixteen hours of eating prison slops he was as hungry as a Tasmanian devil loose in a rabbit preserve. He took the sandwich from Algernon. Oh yes—it was ham and it was covered with mustard! It was Christmas morning and he was five years old!
“You’re free to go,” said Algernon.
“Go where?” said Piffy.
Algernon gestured toward a door on the other side of the
Annex. “You can go there,” he said. “It leads to the prison library—or you can
go with me.”
”Where are you going?” asked Piffy
“I’m delivering a load of Viagra to Bond,” said Algernon.
“I think I’ll take the library,” said Piffy.
“Suit yourself,” said Algernon.
Piffy took a bite from his sandwich, crossed the room, opened the door, went down a short corridor and stepped into the prison library. Wow! What a change! He took another bite of his sandwich.
A one-eyed 'Asian' wearing a skullcap with a hook for a right hand, was haranguing a group of other ‘Asians’ in front of a book display. He appeared angry and was gesticulating with his hook as if surrounded by crocodiles.
“She likes John Travolta,” he was saying.
John Travolta? Did he say John Travolta? Piffy stopped. He wanted to hear this.
“John Travolta,” said the one-eyed ‘Asian.’ “Who is dancing and moving his stomach as quick as the—as I don’t know what—and she likes that…”
There was more: “We teach our wives through television how to answer back—is that clever?”
And then: “Kaffir blood is halal (permitted), it means he can be killed…his money can be taken unless he accepts shahada (witness)…”
The man went on and on. Piffy edged closer. He wanted to hear what the nut would say next. He took a bite of his sandwich—his ham sandwich—and down he went! He must have tripped on a robe or a shoe or something. He fell flat on his face, the sandwich flying from his hand, the contents splattering across the one-eyed man. There was a stunned silence.
“Was that…was that…ham?” croaked the one-eyed man.
“Yes…it was ham!” gasped the man standing next to one-eye. He pointed at a yellow splotch that had appeared suddenly and mysteriously on his friend’s robe. Then he noticed a piece of ham sticking to his own robe. He screamed. His eyes rolled up in his head and he would have fallen if someone had not grabbed him by the elbow!
“Allahu akbar!” someone cried. “I think I got some on me!” And he danced round and round trying to shake it off without having to touch it!
“Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” roared a man in a turban.
An ‘Asian’ pointed at Piffy. “It was him!” he screamed. “He did it! Get him! Get him!”
The one-eyed man was screaming in Arabic.
Somebody grabbed Piffy from behind and before he knew it he had been dragged back through the short corridor and into the Annex. The door was quickly slammed shut and bolted. By now Piffy’s heart was in his throat!
“I can’t leave you alone for a minute!” grumbled Algernon A. Algernon.
“What in the Sam Hill is this all about?” asked a trembling Piffy.
“I think,” said Algernon, “Abu Hamza al-Masri has just laid a fatwa on you!”
A fatwa…Abu Hamza al-Masri…could it be?
(To be continued)