The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 55)

CHAPTER 55:

HE’S A NICE MAN

It was tough being a ten-year-old boy in a Bratz bra and nylon-lycra rosebud panties. He didn’t get any respect—especially from eleven-year-old girls a lot larger and stronger than he was with a grudge against him. He had used his considerable skills as a Marine Corps close combat instructor and as Mayberry County’s Three-Time Junior Calf-Roping Champion to hogtie and stuff her under Aisha’s bed. But that had been a while ago. Couldn’t she let bygones be bygones?

It wasn’t his fault Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble had left her standing at the altar in favor of the slim-hipped boy in the Bratz bra. It was just as embarrassing for him. Still he could understand how she might be a bit piqued and would want to slug him—but a knife? And where in the world did she get a knife?

He would have known from where if he had he been in the beach house when Bonds—Stockton Bonds—had answered Aisha’s cries for help. The first thing Hanadi Hamza did upon being released from her ‘jail cell’ in the main bedroom was to go to the kitchen and grab the largest weapon she could find. She had slipped the knife under her burqa and had headed for the Midnight Rider with one thought on her mind—to do great bodily harm to the ten-year-old boy who had ruined her life, who had embarrassed her in front of her peers, who had stolen her betrothed from under her nose on her wedding day.

Piffy was still dizzy and his legs were about as steady as those of a drunken sailor trying to navigate the deck of a sinking ship in a monsoon. And with his mind still addled from the drugged Jihad Cola he had gulped down as if he were Otis Campbell loose in W. C. Fields’ liquor cabinet, he was at her mercy.

He managed to get a hand on her wrist and the blade missed his throat by an inch! An inch! But she was too strong for him and even with both hands he couldn’t wring the knife from her grasp. So he hung on for dear life. They whirled round and round. It wasn’t Dancing with the Stars—it was more like Beetlejuice waltzing with Edward Scissorshands. And then Hanadi let go of the knife and hit the ten-year-old like Butch hit Alfalfa in the back room at Darla’s dance recital though it felt more like he had been on the receiving end of one of Ali’s haymakers in the 14^th round of the Thrilla in Manila. He went down—hard!

Hanadi had scarcely retrieved her knife when Aisha grabbed her from behind and they stumbled across the floor! By the time Piffy could sit up al-Kabibble’s jilted bride had shoved Aisha into a row of TVs.

Then Fatima grabbed a bottle of Old Grandad from the bar and it turned into an episode from Seinfeld. The nine-year-old with the Hentai eyes never had a chance. Hanadi was a big girl. She would have been a match for anyone in her age group, including most boys. She took the bottle away from Fatima, set her down alongside Aisha and Piffy was left to fend for himself.

Okay, he would go down fighting. He doubled his fists. He was about to receive a first class whipping for stealing the superannuated boyfriend of an eleven-year-old girl! If they ever heard about this in Mayberry County he would be finished! If Mike Hammer heard about it he would tell Mickey Spillane and the whole world would know. He would rather be dead. Yeah, dead…

She slapped him once, twice. He lunged forward; he tried to grab her—he didn’t want to hit her; that’s what he would tell himself later—but he stumbled or something and she slapped him a couple more times. They were not annoying little girl slaps; she was Wonder Woman beating the crap out of Doctor Psycho. So he did the honorable thing—he took a dive.

And then Bonds—Stockton Bonds—grabbed Hanadi from behind and it was over, just like that! Piffy could only guess as to what Agent Six-and-seven-eights did to render the mujahideena hors de combat but it was probably no more than was necessary.

Fatima squealed with delight. Bonds caught the unconscious Hanadi before she could slump to the floor. Then as if it were something he did every day he draped her across the pool table as if were a bored clerk lying out some yard goods Yes, he was still Bonds—Stockton Bonds.

Piffy sat up. He wasn’t sure where he was. He was shaken, disorientated. His head was in a whirl. Was he still in the Midnight Rider? His jaw felt like it had been sandpapered. He wiped at the blood that was coming from his nose. If Six-and-seven-eights hadn’t intervened he would have received the most humiliating trashing of his life. If Grandpa Piffy could see him now he would never hear the end of it…

Bonds picked up the bottle of Old Grandad from where it had fallen to the floor and set it back on the bar. He shook his head and sighed. “It seems I can’t leave you girls alone for a minute without somebody starting a rumpus,” he said. “What happened?”

A mouse was already discoloring the flesh under Piffy’s left eye and there was a scratch on his forehead. Aisha was trying to explain to Bonds what had happened but she was too excited to make sense and Fatima kept interrupting with her own version of events. “Hanadi tried to kill Krista!” she said.

Bonds glanced at Piffy. “Well, Honey Rider, “ he said, “it looks like you have some explaining to do.”

Piffy tugged his dress over his panties before standing up. “Hanadi got mad,” he said. “She has a terrible temper. She thinks I stole her boyfriend.”

Agent Six-and-seven-eights raised an eyebrow. “Her boyfriend?” he said.

“The Sheikh,” said Piffy.

Bonds smiled. Ah, yes, the Sheikh! He had been informed of al-Kabibble’s lifelong interest in little girls and had noticed the Sheikh’s eyes lingering on Honey Rider. And Duldul had told him about the fatwa the Sheikh had issued declaring nine-year-old girls fair game for marriage. Duldul had said the Sheikh was supposed to have married someone named Hanadi Hamza but at the last moment the old goat had thrown her over for a tart named Krista. And Krista was the name Duldul used for Honey Rider. But this was a bit much.

Maybe he should have put two and two together but no one had informed him that Hanadi had come along for the ride. He had thought she had been left behind in the Jilted Lovers Suite at Heartbreak Hotel. But here she was. He studied the unconscious girl draped across the pool table. He shook his head. He could not believe his Honey Rider had been a willing participant to any of this nonsense—not his little Honey Rider.

Piffy tugged at his skirt. He looked at the floor. He was embarrassed. “The Sheikh kind of likes me,” he said quietly.

“Yes, it would seem so,” said Bonds.

“I think we better restrain her till she cools off,” said Piffy. “Then we can drop her off at the hospital when we drop off the Sheikh. I think she needs attention more than he does.”

“Restrain her?” said Bonds.

“Sure,” said Piffy.

“And how do you propose to do that?” laughed Bonds “You got a pair of handcuffs?”

“Don’t need handcuffs,” said Piffy.

“Really?” said Bonds

So the ten-year-old in the Bratz bra showed Bonds what he meant. He unplugged one of the fans, cut the electric cord into several pieces with Hanadi’s knife and while Agent Six-and-seven-eights watched in amazement, he bound, gagged and stuffed his recent tormentor under the pool table!

Agent Six-and-seven-eights shook his head. There was more to his little Honey Rider than he had suspected. “You didn’t learn that at a Four H Club,” he said.

“My great-grandfather was a Granger,” said Piffy.

Bonds fixed a drink from the bar. He looked around the lounge. It was almost like old times. Almost…

“Fatima has a cut on her arm,” said Piffy.

Agent Six-and-seven-eights finished his drink. “Well, girls,” he said, “unless one of you wants to arm wrestle me for the right to drive this vehicular monstrosity to Cairo, I’m going to climb behind the wheel and get us to the nearest hospital. The Sheikh needs the tender hands of a ministering angel more than he needs a Las Vegas marriage. If any of you has a road map, I’d appreciate it. If I make a wrong turn and we wind up in Timbuktu I’ll say Honey Rider was driving.”

Nobody laughed—it was a tough crowd. Dr. No was dead. The girls watched his every move, wide-eyed and silent except for Honey Rider who minded his skirt.

Bonds sighed. No, it wasn’t like old times. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get this crate going. Let me know if anything dumb happens.”

He left through the side door and stumbled to the cab. Accursed sciatica! He climbed into the front seat and picked up his cell phone. He called M.

“Look, M,” he said, “you’ve got to get me out of here. I’m tired of riding herd on a flea in a box. Bernard Piffy isn’t here, hasn’t been and probably never has been. And the girls—lovely little creatures, to be sure—are driving me crazy. I signed on for another Casino Royale and I’m stuck with the Katzenjammer Kids in drag. Do something! Get me out of here!”

He listened with growing impatience as M explained why Agent Six-and-seven-eights must remain right where he was—there had been budget cuts, Anjem Choudary was demanding action on the murder in the basement of the London Madrassas and there was a big meeting tomorrow with Ramadan and the Archbishop of Canterbury. And it couldn’t have come at a worst tine—M’s vacation was due to start in two days!

Suddenly Bonds sat up as straight as he could. “Oh, oh,” he said. “I got a crick in my back that feels amazingly like the barrel of a Beretta 85 FS Cheetah.”

“I hope this in not one of your premonitions,” said M.

“I had better check,” said Bonds. “ I’ll call you back…”

“Bonds? Bonds?” said M.

A Beretta 85 FS Cheetah? Now where in the heck would a Beretta 85 FS Cheetah come from?

He’s a nice man,” said Aisha.

“Yeah, I guess he is,” said Piffy. “But I wish he would stop calling me Honey Rider.”

“Who’s Honey Rider?” asked Aisha.

“She’s an old girlfriend of his,” said Piffy. “I guess I look like her.”

“What do we do now?” asked Aisha.

Piffy shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Let’s lie down on the bed and watch the stars through the skylight,” she said.

It would have been a good idea if the brain in Piffy’s head had belonged to the ten-year-old body, but it didn’t, it belonged to Bernard Piffy, middle-aged private detective on the trail of Yaser Abdel Said, the notorious Dallas cabdriver who had murdered his daughters, Sarah and Amina Said, in a fit of Islamic rage.

The man and the boy, mind and body, had slowly merged, had become hopelessly entangled, and both had grown close to Aisha—too close perhaps.

It was no longer a childish relationship—the adult had intruded. It wasn’t exactly love, but it had become more than an infatuation. Maybe it was a father-daughter thing. He hoped so. At times he wished he were really ten years old. That would make everything easier. The middle-aged part of the brain was too mature for its own good. He didn’t know if he could trust himself lying alongside her on a bed. He had done so before but his mind had begun to work in strange ways. The preteen body might not be capable of much in the way of sexual gymnastics but he was worried about what the adult mind might try.

“Oh, come on,” cajoled Aisha. She took him by the hand and led him to the first bedroom.

They lay on their backs on the bed. There wasn’t much to see. It was black up there. God had turned off the heavenly TV. That was just fine with Piffy.

Aisha’s hand crept into his. “Promise me you will always be with me,” she whispered.

“I will,” he said fervently. “I will!”

Oh God! Why did he say that? He was a cad! He was a heel! It was a promise he would never be able to keep! Even now he was wishing he were back in the body of the adult Bernard Piffy!

She kissed him on the cheek. He wanted to grab her and kiss her back but not as little Bernie Piffy—no, not as little Bernie Piffy but as a much older Bernie Piffy, a middle-aged Bernie Piffy, an adult Bernie Piffy! Oh, what a vile confused wretch he had become! He was worse than the Sheikh—worse than the Sheikh’s ugly immensity! How had he devolved into such a creep? It was Asma bint Marwan’s fault.

He wasn’t a middle-aged man and he wasn’t a ten-year-old boy—he was both at the same time and there were times when he was neither.

Somehow or other he managed to fall asleep. Aisha left and then she came back. She went to sleep beside him. Fatima came into the bedroom, looked at them and went back into the lounge.

Piffy woke with a start. Something was wrong—he could sense it! Aisha was asleep alongside him. She was breathing evenly. Gosh, she was cute! If he had had a girlfriend when he was ten years old he would have wanted one just like her. He sighed.

It was daylight. He glanced up at the skylight and there they were—leering down at him through the plastic! Duldul’s plug-uglies! Where in the Hell had they come from?

He would have preferred the Manson Family; Osawatomie John Brown and his sons; the Barker Boys, anybody but these creeps!

He didn’t have time to shout a warning, not even time to sit up before the skylight came crashing down on him and on his beloved Aisha—and on his pathetic little disappearing dreams!