The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 51)

CHAPTER 51:

THE JIZYA

Even though Duldul was almost twice his size, Piffy was sure he could handle the former donkey master without breaking a sweat if it came to it—he had written the Marine Corps Manual on Self Defense—but the two plug-uglies lurking behind Duldul were another matter. They would not stand by idly while the baby triceratops neutered their master. Even if he had been Alley Oop he wouldn’t have had much of a chance against them. There would be no brawl if he could avoid one.

So far Duldul hadn’t recognized him as the ten-year-old boy he and the Mutaween had tried so hard to kill just a couple of days ago. It had been dark and Duldul had never got a close look at his victim. And the ‘drag race’ conducted by Aisha to turn Piffy into a darling little preteen Muslima had been a startling success. The job she had done on his face with eyeliner and lipstick would have fooled his mother. And there was the wig.

The middle-aged brain in the ten-year-old body couldn’t look into a mirror without wondering who was looking back at him. He was such a little hottie! Still he was scared stiff. If they found out whom he was it would be curtains before the fat lady reached the high notes. He could feel Duldul’s breath on his face. His mascara would melt if the rascal got any closer.

“How would you like to make a little money?” leered the former donkey master.

Piffy gulped! Good Grief! He didn’t look that hot did he? Something slithered through his stomach and his knees began to shake like a bramble bush in the middle of a Kansas twister. “I…I…don’t do things like that,” he stammered.

One of the plug-uglies laughed—a brontosaurus hacking up the skull of a pit bull.

Duldul lowered his gaze to Piffy’s chest but only for a second. “It’s nothing like that, sis,” he said. “It’s the chauffeur—Habib—he has something we want. It’s ours and we want it back. We thought you might be able to get it for us.”

Piffy mulled it over for a moment. “If it’s yours,” he said, “why don’t you just ask him for it?”

“Habib is a very forgetful man,” said Duldul. “He’s old. He doesn’t remember he took it from us. It’s in a little box. He keeps it on the dashboard in the limo. You bring it to us and we’ll give you a hundred Egyptian pounds. You’ll be able to buy all of the latest Hamas Mouse tapes you want.”

“What’s in the box?” asked Piffy.

“That isn’t any of your business,” said Duldul.

“I don’t know,” said Piffy, “I like to know what I’m stealing before I steal it.”

“It’s not stealing,” said Duldul. His voice had an edge to it. “It’s ours. Besides—Habib is a dhimmi…a Kuffar. He must be brought low and made to pay the jizya.”

“The jizya?” said Piffy.

“The tax the People of the Book pay for the privilege of practicing their religion in the dar al-Islam. Don’t they teach you anything at the Madrassas?”

“The jizya?” said Piffy.

“The jizya,” said Duldul.

“I don’t know,” said Piffy. “Stealing is wrong.”

Duldul’s hand closed around Piffy’s wrist. “We’re not kidding, little one!” he hissed.

“You’re hurting me!” cried Piffy.

“Make up your mind!” said Duldul. “You will be well rewarded!”

“Krista? Krista?” a voice called from the encroaching gloom.

It was Fatima! She was coming across the sand toward the wood. Maybe she had had one too many Jihad Colas, maybe she had something she wanted to tell Krista, the Christ Child; maybe it was the whole bunch of them coming—Aisha, the Sheikh, Bonds, even Hanadi! He would have to warn them.

“Go back!” he yelled. “Go back!”

Duldul was every bit as surprised as Piffy and that worked to the ten-year-olds advantage and he never hesitated. He broke free of Duldul’s grasp, drove a knee into the donkey master’s groin and before either of the plug-uglies could get out of park he was gone into the woods.

He wasn’t Jesse Owens and there were almost as many obstacles among the trees as there had been on Omaha Beach and Pointe du Hoc on D-Day but as a ten-year-old he had beaten the best high school athletes in the 100-yard dash at the Mayberry County Fair.

One of the judges had said, “Look at that ‘som’ bitch go!” For weeks afterward Piffy’s friends had called him Sombitch!

But Jesse Owens wore track shoes when he ran at Munich, a wise decision; Piffy was saddled with a pair of Aisha’s sandals that threatened to go their own way with every step. He tripped along as best he could. He couldn’t have made more than thirty or forty yards before a twig hitched a ride under his left foot! The pain was excruciating! It shot up from his toes to his hip. He limped to a stop in the brambles. He took off the sandal but by then the hitchhiker had disappeared—thank God!

He was breathing heavily and his heart was thumping like a fist on a punching bag. His left foot felt like it was on fire. If they caught him in the weeds they would kick the crap out of him or worse yet make use of his body for a temporary marriage!

What an ugly phrase—a temporary marriage! Leave it to Islam. But, would they have a surprise! Maybe he shouldn’t have worn so much mascara. He had told Aisha to go easy. If something should happed to him…

Fortunately he was in the trees, it was growing dark and there was no pursuit. The chances were they wouldn’t have found him in the woods if they had tried. He hopped along, dodging the lighted areas, pausing now and then to massage his aching foot.

He made a wide circle of the area and came up on the beach house from the opposite direction. It must have taken him fifteen minutes. He stuck to the shadows as he approached the sprawling building. It was a wise move.

The Sheikh was talking to three men in a pickup truck. They were from Hamas. Duldul and his two friends had disappeared.

A Lieutenant was telling al-Kabibble to get the girls into the beach house, lock the doors and stay put till daylight. It would be safe to come out then. The area was the haunt of thieves, smugglers, agents-provocateurs, MOSSAD operatives, procurers and assorted apes and pigs—hadn’t the Sheikh known that? He should have.

Al-Kabbible got his girls into the beach house. They were excited as could be—maybe it was the appearance of Hamas, maybe it was the Jihad Cola. It couldn’t have been anything Piffy said. He didn’t mention his encounter with Duldul to anyone—not to the Sheikh, not to Hamas, not to Bonds, who in any event, was nowhere to be found.

Without fresh firewood for the scare things quieted down quickly and it wasn’t long before the girls were off to bed. Hanadi Hamza was confined to the guest room. Piffy bunked with Aisha and Fatima in a large room with a single over-sized bed. They talked and giggled and sang the Mockingbird song.

“Tra la la, tweedle dee, dee dee. It gives me a thrill To wake up in the morning To the mockingbird’s trill…

“Got a three-corned plow and an acre to till…”

“Only me and the sky and an old whippprwill…”

Then it was lights out. Piffy was so exhausted from the tumultuous events of a seemingly endless day, topped off by the harrowing trip through the woods, that even the closeness of Aisha couldn’t keep him awake and once he closed his eyes he fell asleep.

He awoke with Aisha’s arm lying across his face. They were all jumbled together on the oversized bed. Piffy was in the middle—a middle-aged man in the body of the ten-year-old boy. It was almost as frightening as his encounter with Duldul. How did he get into this mess?

Aisha was asleep. She looked so cute and tempting lying alongside him on the bed. He wanted to reach out and caress her but he knew it would be wrong. This was not the Bill Maher Show and she wasn’t one of the The Girls Next Door. The middle-aged brain in the Opie Taylor body was awash with thoughts that would have sent Grandpa Piffy reaching for his razor strop and Grandma Piffy for her Bible. Why did Aisha have to look so cute and be so sweet? She would be the death of him.

Fortunately, the body he currently inhabited wasn’t capable of carrying out any of his wilder thoughts. If he had been a teenager, he would have been one hell of a screwed up kid. But he was still in his prepubescent years. So what the hell should he do?

He sat up. He wouldn’t be ten years old for the rest of his life. At least he didn’t think he would. There must be some sort of time limit on how long he could remain as he was.

If he didn’t get any older and Aisha did it would pose one heck of a problem. Maybe he should just enjoy himself until somebody shot him dead or sliced off his head. That seemed to be the direction in which he was going.

Maybe if they were both fifteen years old—or twenty—or twenty-five. It was scary. Besides, it was puppy love, that’s what it was, puppy love, they were kids, less than kids; they would grow apart and he wanted to get back to being the real Bernard Piffy, private eye, warts, gray hairs and all.

He looked at Aisha—so young, so lovely. He had better get the hell out of this damn bedroom before he did something stupid. He would talk to Bonds—Stockton Bonds. Yes, that’s what he would do—he would talk to Bonds about other things, about Duldul maybe.

It was well past daylight and Agent Six-and-seven-eights was leaning against the front of the limo, swabbing at imaginary smudges with a soiled handkerchief. He was singing—or what passed for singing:

“Come all ye young fellers that follow th’ sea. W-ay! Hey? Blow th’ man down! I’ll sing ye a song if ye’ll listen t’ me. Give us th’ time an’ we’ll blow th’ man down!”

Piffy stared silently at the wrinkled old man.

At last Bonds noticed the ten-year-old girl in the short dress and yesterday’s eye shadow. He smiled. “Ever been in the Navy, little girl?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Piffy.

“Well, you wouldn’t have liked it,” said Bonds. “There’s sharks and octopuses and pirate ships and scurvy…that’s one for you, scurvy…and gold doubloons and pieces o’ eight. Makes it hard to count your wages on payday. I still don’t know how much a piece o’ eight is worth after all these years. Do you have any idea?”

“No, sir,” said Piffy.

Agent Six-and-seven-eights stowed the handkerchief in his back pocket. He looked the little girl over carefully. “Did anybody ever tell you, you look like Honey Rider?” he said.

“Honey Rider?” echoed Piffy.

“A young Honey Rider,” said Bonds.

Piffy frowned. Yesterday it was Holly Goodhead. Today it was Honey Rider. By now he was on to Bonds—the little girl was not blushing; her knees were not trembling, she was secure in her masculinity, the middle-aged mind was in control—sort of. He tugged his skirt closer to his knees.

“Yesterday you said I reminded you of Holly Goodhead,” he said.

“That was yesterday,” smiled Bonds. “A gentleman can change his mind, can’t he?”

“Look, Mr. Bonds—“ began Piffy.

That was as far as he got. He had made a horrible mistake. He wasn’t supposed to know who Bonds was! He had blown it!

The eyes in the wrinkled face went cold. Hell had frozen over. “Well,” said Agent Six-and-seven-eights, “it seems you have been talking to somebody.”

Piffy sighed. He might as well come clean about Duldul. He owed Bonds that much—they were in the same profession, allies of sorts. “Last night Duldul offered me a hundred pounds to steal a box from the limo,” he said.

“Duldul?” said Bonds. He frowned. “I should have known.”

He reached into the driver’s compartment for a small box. It had an S engraved in the top. He showed it to Piffy. “This one?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Piffy.

“Did he tell you what was in it?” asked Bonds.

“No,” said Piffy. “He was scared off by Hamas.”

“How did you know my name was Bonds? Did Duldul tell you?”

Piffy nodded. It wouldn’t do for Bonds to suspect the little ten-year-old girl of being anything other than what she was pretending to be.

“Odd,” said Bonds. “Duldul is a very careful man. He wouldn’t have told you who I was unless he intended to kill you.”

“Kill me?” croaked Piffy. His face turned red and his knees began to tremble. He looked at the ground

“This certainly complicates things,” said Bonds.

“I think I had better go,” whispered the ten-year-old.

Agent Six-and-seven-eights was suddenly aware of what he had said and to whom he was talking. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m a silly old man. I say stupid things. Mother Goose once wrote a rhyme about me. Did I tell you about that?”

“No, sir,” said Piffy.

Bonds smiled. “‘There was a woman from Worcester who dreamt a man seduced her…” he began. He paused, scratched his head. “Oh, wait…that’s not the one, but she wrote one about me. I think it was ’Long legs, crooked thighs, little head, and no eyes.’ “ He paused again. “Ah…but you don’t want to hear it. It’s too silly.”

Piffy was still staring at the ground, twisting his skirt in his hands. “No, sir,” he said

“I must apologize,” said Bonds. “Mr. Duldul wouldn’t harm a flea…not a flea.” He smiled. A flea! It was a private joke.

He offered the mysterious box to the little girl. “Here,” he said. “Do you want to take a look at it? Honey Rider would want to look at it.”

Piffy took the box from the wrinkled hand. “How about Holly Goodhead?” he said. “Would she want to look at it?”

“I expect not,” said Bonds. Then he smiled. “Now don’t steal it while I’m not looking,” he said.

But Piffy was not listening. Something had come over him the moment he touched the box. Sweat popped out on his brow, his knees were trembling again and his heart began to thump against his Bratz bra like Muhammad Ali hammering Joe Frazier.

It was the box! He was sure of it! Except for the S carved into the top it was the one he had held in his hands that night in Yasser Arafat’s Fuhrerbunker—the one that had contained the Sufi Flea! The immortal Sufi Flea—the flea he had supposedly let loose on the world!