The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 53)

CHAPTER 53:

DATE RAPE

It was all Yaser Abdel Said’s fault. If he hadn’t murdered his daughters, Sarah and Amina Said, Piffy wouldn’t be in this predicament. He would be in Bellwether for the octopus wrestling championships or in the Amazon Tidal Basin for the Annual Dead-Enders Red Piranha Fish Fry and Fly Casting Championships. But, no, he had walked into Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club and had accepted a handful of dollars from a great bunch of guys to bring Said to justice—dead or alive, they said, preferably dead.

Piffy would do what he had to do, he was a first class private eye, but in the six months he had been on the case he hadn’t come anywhere near finding Said. He had been to Dallas, to London, to Gaza. He had been stabbed, drugged and knocked on the head. He had suffered indignities Rodney Dangerfield would not have tolerated. And his reward had been what? Her Majesty’s Government was thinking of renewing Stockton Bonds license to kill—the target, purportedly, one Bernard Piffy! How had he come to this pass?

Nothing like this had ever happened to Mike Hammer or Travis McGee or Richard Diamond or Barnaby Jones. Had any of them ever been reduced to tracking down a vicious killer while mired in the body of a ten-year-old boy dressed as a girl?

He shook his head—if he were a cursing man he would have cursed. “Damn you, Henry David Thoreau!” he would have said. He glanced at Wheatley W Wheatley. “Got any ideas how I can get out of this mess?” he asked.

“You’re on your own, kid,” said Wheatley “I work for Abu Afaq—we’re in another dimension, we operate on a different level. If I butt in it would upset the balance of power. All the gods and the fairies would rush in. It would be Gotterdammerung. But if I were you I wouldn’t worry about Bonds. It would be the Sheikh I’d be worried about. That old fossil’s been gulping drugs like he owns a pharmacy.”

“I was hoping for better advice than that,” said Piffy.

Wheatley smirked. “Wear pantyhose,” she said.

“Very funny,” said Piffy.

“Look, kid,” she said, “you’ve got to stop flashing your unmentionables every time you turn around. You’re a private eye—you could at least look dignified. You’re stirring up that old creep. Remember—he thinks there’s nothing wrong with a grown man having sex with a nine-year-kid.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Piffy. “I thought I was going to have to write to Dear Abby.”

“Don’t get my wrong,” said Wheatley. “If you ever get back to your normal self, look me up. I think we could have a good time together.”

He scowled. He didn’t flash his unmentionables—not on purpose anyway—but he did wish his dresses were a little longer. He peeked under his skirt. He would have to talk to Aisha.

He was going to say something but when he looked up Wheatley was gone, striding briskly toward the wood. A few moments later the roar of a motorcycle broke the stillness of the seashore. Well, at least she didn’t ride a broom. She might be part jinn or maybe part troll but she was mostly human.

“Bernie?” someone was calling from the beach house. It was Aisha.

He started toward the Midnight Rider. “I’m over here,” he said.

She came up alongside him. “Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“I guess so,” he said.

“The Sheikh says we’re leaving in a few minutes. He was waiting for his Niagara but he says he doesn’t need it now.”

“Niagara?” said Piffy. “What is this Niagara stuff?”

“It’s the drug he takes,” she said.

Suddenly it dawned on Piffy. It wasn’t Niagara! It was Viagra! The old fool was taking Viagra! What on earth for? He had one foot in the grave and his chances of making Allah’s Great Whorehouse in the Sky were slim—unless he turned himself into a human bomb in a pizza parlor or found a way to collect the jizya Benjamin Netanyahu owed Islam for being allowed to practice his People of the Book on Islam’s doorstep.

“He likes you,” said Aisha.

“Yeah, I suppose he does,” said Piffy, the middle-aged brain in the ten-year-old body spinning its wheels between preadolescence and sweet sixteen. That was the trouble when he was around Aisha. The adult Bernard Piffy sort of got pushed aside and he didn’t always think things through like he should. It was time he did.

Sure, he was a boy dressed-up as a girl but the Sheikh must have seen through that by now. There were times when he had been less than decorous. The old geezer must have noticed some unusual bulges. Then again maybe he didn’t care. One had to admit the ten-year-old version of Bernard Piffy was quite a little hottie and an outrageous flirt—for a boy. The Sheikh must have been mesmerized.

And part of it was Piffy’s fault. There had been times when his preteen body had overwhelmed his middle-aged brain and he had acted like a real ten-year-old kid—too young and too innocent and too male to care what he was doing. It had been fun fooling Bonds and Duldul and the Sheikh, teasing them, flirting with them—making them think he was a girl. Not that he had deliberately flipped his skirt—everything had been accidental. He was ten years old, wasn’t he? It was a game and it was exciting. He would have fooled his own mother. Perhaps the Sheikh was so full of Viagra he had lost his head. That could be.

Still he should have been more frightened than he was. This was the dar al-Islam. It was not a pretty place for women or little girls.

But the Sheikh was an old man. There had to be an explanation for his behavior other than Viagra. Maybe he had been reading The Satanic Verses and had got carried away. Maybe he got The Girls Next Door on satellite TV Of course he was on record as saying nine-year-old girls made better sexual companions for adult men than adult women. But that was silly. He couldn’t really believe that could he? No sane person could. And even if he did he was too old to act out his fantasies, wasn’t he?

He would have to keep a closer eye on the old rat-bag from now on. If the old geezer tried something funny he would live to regret it. A calf-roping ex-Marine could take care of himself. And he had General Patton stuffed under the mattress in the Midnight Rider just in case. But the last thing he wanted was to hurt or incapacitate the Sheikh before they got to Cairo. After that, he wouldn’t care what happened to the old bastard

“Aisha?” al-Kabibble called from the beach house.” “Be a dear and come here for a minute.”

Aisha glanced at Piffy. “I’ll be right back, Bernie,” she said. And she hurried toward the beach house.

Piffy went around to the front of the Midnight Rider. He wanted to talk to Bonds once more before they left for Cairo.

He didn’t have far to go. Bonds—Stockton Bonds—was climbing into the front seat of the giant limo.

The ten-year-old stopped. “Where’s the regular driver?” he asked.

Bonds smiled. “I’ve replaced him,” he said. “The poor fellow took sick—a headache, I believe.”

“Oh,” said Piffy. He tugged at his skirt. He remembered what Wheatley W. Wheatley had said about flashing his unmentionables. Why did little girls have so many things to worry about?

Next time he would wear a Shirley Temple sailor suit or an Alice in Wonderland frock with long pantalets. He would look so ugly no one would dare look up his skirt. But where would he get a Shirley Temple sailor suit in the middle of the Gaza strips? Maybe the boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club could send him one. Yeah, sure…his mind was wandering again.

Bonds was staring at him. “Is something bothering you, little girl?” he asked

Piffy blushed. He had forgotten his little purse with the Lip Gloss and the compact and the make-believe cell phone. And now he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Do you have any Lip Gloss?” he asked. It was a stupid question and he was embarrassed.

Bonds laughed. “I’m afraid not,” he said.

“Oh,” said Piffy.

“That’s a strange question for a little girl to ask a gentleman,” said Bonds.

The ten-year-old blushed. What the heck had he been thinking? Lip Gloss! It was something Fatima would have said. “The Sheikh says we’re going to leave,” he said suddenly.

“I know,” said Bonds. “Honey Rider told me. We used to hunt seashells together. Not here, of course, but in a place far, far away…have you ever hunted for seashells? It’s a lot of fun but you have to be careful you don’t step on the crabs. Have you ever stepped on a crab? They say it’s like being chewed out by Maggie Thatcher.”

Piffy did not like the way Six-and-seven-eights was staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I have to go now,” he said.

“Arrivederci,” said Bonds. He gave the little girl a Benny Hill salute and crawled into the cab of the Midnight Rider. He could be quite the charmer.

Piffy started toward the ‘old’ 18-Passendger SUV.

He wasn’t halfway there when he saw some feet sticking out from under the vehicle. They weren’t moving and there was a dark splotch of something on the ground nearby that looked like blood. He could tell from the color of the man’s pants that it was the Midnight Rider’s regular driver. It was a strange place to take a nap, a perfect place to crawl after being shot in the head. Maybe Bonds hadn’t had enough time to drag him into the weeds, maybe it was too much of a chore for an old man—dead bodies can be heavy.

There wasn’t any sense in going any farther. He had seen all he had needed to see. Besides he had forgotten what he intended to do. He turned back. When he reached the Midnight Rider he waved to Bonds and then ran as fast as he could to the beach house. He was sure he would need the Single Action Colt .45 1873 Army Revolver before the night was over.

Aisha handed Piffy a Jihad Cola. He was hot and sweaty and the soft drink was cold and refreshing. It was like nectar dipped from the middle of the Arctic Ocean. He had a second.

The Sheikh was in an exuberant mood. His teeth were flashing and the Marquis de Sade eyes in the wrinkled face were moist, glistening with excitement. His bags were packed; he was ready to go.

Fatima and Hanadi were nowhere to be seen.

Piffy finished his second Jihad Cola, tossed the empty can into a wastebasket and reached for a third.

Al-Kabibble smiled at the ten-year-old—or maybe it was a leer. “Would you be so kind as to take my bags to the limo, sweetie?” he asked. It was the first time he had called Krista sweetie. “The driver has turned on the fans. It is just scrumptious in there—an Arabian Night. Aisha will help me with Fatima. The little one has been overcome with excitement.”

Piffy smiled. Overcome with excitement? What a silly little girl! It was possible though. He was feeling a little lightheaded himself. It must have been the caffeine in the Jihad Cola.

He looked at the Sheikh’s luggage. Sure—he was young and strong; he could tote the Sheikh’s luggage to the Midnight Rider. There were only six or seven pieces and the quicker they got to Cairo the better.

“And do have another Jihad Cola,” urged the Sheikh.

Piffy took another Cola from the cooler, drank half of it and then started for the Midnight Rider with the largest of the Sheikh’s bags.

Al-Kabibble took Aisha by the arm and steered her toward the large bedroom at the rear of the beach house. By now the Viagra had done its job and the Sheikh was ready!

Oh, was he ready! He was as ready as he had ever been! He was twenty years old again! Twenty years old! He was huge! He was immense! He could scarcely contain his lust, his desire. He would burst his clothes if he weren’t careful.

He had been waiting for this day for years! He was as potent as the Prophet had been with his nine-year-old bride and as soon as he locked Aisha in the room with her dopey little friend and the lethargic Hanadi he would be on his way to the Midnight Rider for a night of fun and games with his own little Lolita!

But Aisha hadn’t been cooperating. She had scarcely touched the drugged Jihad Cola and it wasn’t until Krista had returned from wherever she had been that Aisha had been talked into sampling one of the soft drinks. It would take some cajoling, maybe even a little arm-twisting, but he was sure he could get her locked in the large bedroom with the others.

And then…and then…but he must not come undone in the process…he must not get too excited…it could ruin everything…

By the time Piffy had deposited the last of al-Kabibble’s bags in the Midnight Rider he was beginning to feel a bit woozy. Maybe he had had too much sun. When he looked down, the floor moved; when he looked up, the ceiling whirled. It was strange. He sank down on the nearest bed. Maybe the dizzy spell would pass. He felt sleepy. The huge fan, lurking on the floor just a few feet away, was blowing a monsoon. But it didn’t seem to matter. Even with the cold air washing over him in a continuous wave he couldn’t stay awake. What he wanted to do was to lie down and go to sleep.

Maybe he had better stand up. Sure, that’s what he would do. He stood up and the wind blew his skirt over his head. He turned his back to the fan. That was better. But he was still as sleepy as all get-out. Maybe if he lied down for a couple of seconds…just a couple of seconds. The Sheikh would be there any minute and so would the others and he would be able to stay awake.

Yeah. He stretched out on the bed. He was already half asleep. He would close his eyes for just a second…just a second…

When he looked up there was the Sheikh, standing on the bed, looking down on him, naked as a jaybird and with the largest immensity the ten-year-old had ever seen on man or beast—not that he had seen many, he was too young for that but he had heard stories and even though the middle-aged brain was submerged in the child’s body he couldn’t help but think the thing was meant for him.

For him! It was a sobering thought. By now he was dimly aware that he had been drugged. It was the Jihad Cola! He should have been horrified, and he was—to an extent. What was happening to him seemed to be happening to someone else—it was weird! Like it was a dream! But a silly little phrase tumbled through his mind. Date Rape! That’s what this was! Date Rape! Only it wasn’t a date.

Yeah, but the Sheikh was going to get one hell of a surprise when he found out his victim was a boy! He giggled. What a joke that would be! But damn! He was about to be raped! That would be a worse joke! There ought to be a law against things like this happening to kids like him! He had to do something and fast—but what? He couldn’t move! He was paralyzed!

And then he started to cry. Oh, good God, not me! Please, not me…