The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 8)

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“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 make a few extra bucks. He had gone into this stupid private eye business to help sustain a very modest living style. Social Security didn’t pay much and Mayberry had never been lavish with the benefits it doled out to its retired employees, including deputy sheriffs. So he hired himself out to the boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club to track down Yaser Abdel Said, the notorious Dallas taxi-driver who had murdered his two daughters in a fit of Islamic rage. He had promised to pursue the wretch to the ends of the earth if necessary. He should have been back by now basking in the adulation of an admiring public, counting his reward money 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 4^th grade; okay, make that the 5^th 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 had 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: had been pursued by a mob of enraged ‘Asian’ Muslims; had taken refuge in a sleazy London pub where he made contact with a new and improved bint Marwan and was then told that the fabled clippings from the Prophet’s toenails was not only true but that the clippings were still in existence. Then Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour found him in the pub and dragged him out into the alley. They would have killed him too had not Umyar showed up and run them off. But Umyar was scarcely a gentle giant and in a fit of rage tried to kill Piffy and would have done so had it not been for the runt with the cat-o’-nine-tails.

But then the runt, for no apparent reason 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?” gasped Piffy. “Lash LaRue?”

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 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 at length.

“I am Bernard Piffy, formerly Barney Fife. 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 on 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 scratches. He could retreat—that was about it. The cat-o’-nine-tails was popping at his toes like a string of angry 4^th 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 in Mayberry! This was The Twilight Zone and he wasn’t Rod Serling; he was Bernard Piffy! He wanted out!

But Algernon A. Algernon was running out of steam. Maybe his heart wasn’t in it. The first rush of anger had dissipated. 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 apple cheeks Piffy had ever seen on a human being. The stranger seemed to exude benignity and benevolence with every step. He was a mendicant of some kind. A monk’s tonsure crowned his head 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 whip back against his shoulder.

“Oh, dear!” said St. Anthony. Was this a fast-draw contest? The aspergillum came out of his belt as if it were a six-shooter out of Wyatt Earp's holster. He flicked it once, twice, at Algernon. “Oh, how I hate to do this,” he said.

The 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. He didn’t trust that Cowsnofsky.

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 Queeg 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 and fuzzy feeling. However this guardian stuff is new to me. 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 at Piffy. “How am I doing?”

“Fine,” said Piffy. “But could you turn off your smile? It’s hurting my eyes.”

“I wish Henrietta wouldn’t hang out at that bar; she’s better than that,” he said. “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. “Suppose—just suppose…” he begin.

“Yes?” prompted the Saint.

“Suppose somebody asked you to find the Prophet’s toenail clippings—could you do it?”

“The Prophet’s toenail clippings?” mused St. Anthony. “That’s a tall order but I supposed I could if I really tried. I can find anything—that’s what is said and who am I to argue. Besides, I think I know where they are—some of them. Now I must make this perfectly clear—are you asking me to find the clippings for you? They have been a cause of great evil, you know.”

Piffy grimaced. It was getting out of hand. “If I could get my hands on them, would they help me find Yaser Abdel Said?”

“Possibly,” said St. Anthony.

Piffy sighed. “Well, okay,” he, said. “How dangerous can it be?”

“Quite dangerous.”

“No, matter,” said Piffy. With someone like St. Anthony backing him, it would be a cakewalk and he could show that snooty bint Marwan a thing or two. “I’m your boy,” he said. He would regret that.

(To be continued)