The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 15)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF versionIf only he had been Mike Hammer or Hulk Hogan or even George Costanza, he might have had a chance, but he was Bernard Piffy—worse yet, a ten-year-old Bernard Piffy, a puny little kid who would have had trouble handling Shirley Temple on the deck of the Good Ship Lollipop, and here he was in the clutches of King Kong’s Siamese twin, the notorious Yaser Abdel Said. At least he thought it was Said. And it was all thanks to Asma bint Marwan and the latest of her hair-brained schemes. He would be lucky if he got out of this alive! And then he got angry—very angry. This behemoth was Said—the notorious Yaser Abdel Said, the SOB he had come all the way to England to corral for the boys at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club, the rat-bag who had murdered his daughters, Sarah and Amina Said, in a fit of Islamic rage. He didn’t have to take this crap from him! He was Bernard Piffy! As he came out from under the bed, he rolled over, got one leg free and drove it into Said’s groin. It felt good! Said screamed, grabbed for Piffy, lost his balance and fell. His head struck the edge of the bed. It went thunk—a good solid thunk, like a blackjack hitting the back of a drunk’s head. It was music to Piffy’s ears. Said was incapacitated—at least temporarily. It must have been self-preservation that took over. Piffy yanked an extension cord from a wall socket. His mind was racing madly. He knew what he had to do but did he remember how to do it? Of course, he did—it was something he would never forget! In less than ten seconds, using the extension cord as a pigging string, he had tied one of Said’s wrists to his ankles! Then he found a scarf and tied the other wrist to the extension cord! Gosh, it was easy. He stuffed a stocking into Said’s mouth and the job was done. Aisha was dumbfounded. She could not believe her eyes. A trickle of blood was coming from the corner of her mouth. “How—how—“ she began. Piffy grinned. He was tempted to take a bow. “I was Mayberry Junior Calf-tying Champion two years in a row,” he said proudly. Aisha looked at her father and then at Piffy. “What do we do now?” she whispered hoarsely. It was a good question, one the Judges at the Mayberry Junior Calf-tying Championships had never asked. There was no Plan B and Said—he was sure it was Said—was beginning to stir. If he didn’t vacate the premises muy pronto there would be hell to pay and it wouldn’t be on the installment plan. “Is there any way out of here but downstairs?” he asked. “No,” she said. Well, that took care of Plan C…and D and E and F. If this were Murder She Wrote or Mission Impossible…maybe, but this was reality—damn stinking reality. How in the hell was he to get his butt past Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour in the lobby before Said began to make a scene? How? If only he had a gun! Yeah…a gun! Ah, who was he kidding—he wasn’t Mike Hammer; he wasn’t even Maxwell Smart. He was doomed! “I know!’ said Aisha. She went to a dresser and pulled open a drawer. “Put these on!” she said, tossing one garment after another in Piffy’s direction. Like any normal 10-year-old boy, Piffy was aghast. “A dress?” he said, poking at the clothes piling up in front of him. “And pantyhose?” “Hurry!” she urged. “Hurry! They could come up here any minute!” Piffy scowled. But who was he to argue? He didn’t have any macho reputation to uphold. He was ten years old—nobody would know. “Are you going to turn your back?” he asked. She smiled and turned away. He stripped off his clothes. He was sweating profusely. He was terribly excited. Pantyhose! Ten-year-olds didn’t wear pantyhose—not ten-year old boys. The very idea! They didn’t have to be this authentic, did they? He wasn’t going to the Senior Prom! But there wasn’t much time. He slipped on a dress and pulled a pair of panties up over his legs—maybe he should have done it in the reverse order but what the heck did he know. He could try the pantyhose the next time. Then it occurred to him—what about his head? He would have to do something about his head! He couldn’t go strutting past Atta and Hanjour looking like Yul Brynner! Fortunately, Aisha was ahead of him. She had a wig—one of her mother’s wigs—and in a few seconds he was appropriately coiffed. Okay, so he wasn’t Shirley Temple, but he could have passed for Carl 'Alfalfa' Switzer’s twin sister. “Let me do the talking,” said Aisha They went down the stairs to the lobby. Hanjour was sprawled in a leather chair studying the Qur’an. Atta was pacing back and forth. He scowled at Piffy, then at Aisha. “Who’s your friend?” he said, nodding at Piffy. Aisha panicked. Her mind went blank. “Martina Navratilova?” she said hesitantly. “A Kuffar!” grumbled Atta. He looked at his watch. “What’s keeping your father?” he demanded. Piffy smirked. “He’s all tied up,” he said. Oh, yes, a wise guy to the very end. Atta glared at Piffy. “Little Kuffar bitch,” he mumbled. “We’ll take that out of you one of these days.” Aisha swallowed. She had regained her composure. “Papa will be with you in about ten minutes,” she said. It would be sooner than that—a lot sooner. A bellow of rage came from Aisha’s room. Then something hit the floor, something heavy and the building seemed to shake. Atta and Hanjour exchanged glances and Atta started immediately up the stairs. Hanjour put aside the Qur’an, smiled at the ‘girls’ and followed Atta. Aisha and Piffy slipped though the door and out into the street. They would have two or three minutes at most. “Where do we go?” whispered Aisha. If she wasn’t terrified, she was close to it. Piffy shrugged. “To McDonalds?” he suggested. Where else would a ten-year-old on the lam go…to Countdown with Keith Olbermann? He might as well go to the Twilight Zone—there wasn’t that much difference. “Do you have any money?” she asked. And that was another thing. His money was in his pants and his pants were in Aisha’s room with the rest of his boy clothes. It was fast becoming apparent he hadn’t thought this thing through but he hadn’t expected to make his debut as London’s newest drag queen for at least another twenty or thirty years. Boy, was Asma bint Marwan going to get an earful! “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got some.” He looked at her. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “Your—ah, dad is gonna be awful mad.” “I will stay with my sister for a few days,” she said. She was close to tears. They walked in silence for a while. It was getting dark. They were nearing a McDonalds. It was easy enough to do, start out in any direction and in ten blocks there would be a McDonalds. “Do you have anyone?” she asked. Piffy grimaced. It was not an easy question. He was an old man in the body of a ten-year-old boy, but he had someone. Oh, he had someone all right! “Yes,” he said slowly, almost harshly. “ My mommy—Asthma—she will come and get me.” And she had damn well better! Aisha ordered the Chicken McNuggets; Piffy had the fish fingers. They found a table near the entrance. “So your mother’s gong to come and get you?” said Aisha. She was making conversion. “Yes,” he said. He couldn’t tell her the truth. “You act so grownup,” she said. Grownup? He wanted to scream—boy, did he ever want to scream! That would be grownup! He felt as naked as a porno queen in Aisha’s dress and her panties were riding up like a seaman climbing the rigging of a sailing ship that had just hit an iceberg. Good grief, what if he had to go to the bathroom? Or the loo or whatever it was they called it? He glanced toward the window. It was getting darker by the minute. Maybe that would help. He could go back to his apartment. It would be a long walk. Maybe he could take a bus. Maybe Aisha would lend him a few squid. Or was it quid? Why didn’t they just use nickels and dimes and be done with it. He stood up. “Aisha,” he began, “could you…” She was looking right past him at someone who had just come in through the door. Piffy wasn’t prepared for what happened next. A voice boomed in his ear. “Who’s your friend, Aisha?” it said. The words cut through Piffy like a knife! It was Goober—Goober from the Madrassas! What was he doing here? Of all the rotten luck! He was afraid to turn around but if he wanted to get out of McDonalds in the next ten seconds he had no choice. “Hey, you’re cute!” said Goober. “What’s your name?” Piffy looked at the floor. Maybe the wretch wouldn’t recognize him in his disguise. “I’m Martina Navritalova,” he mumbled. “No, you’re not,” smiled Goober. “Navritalova is an old-maid tennis player. You’re not a tennis player If you were a tennis player you would be wearing a short skirt.” “He does too play tennis!” said Aisha. “Don’t you, Martina?” Okay, she was trying to be helpful. Goober scowled. He looked Piffy straight in the face. Something wasn’t right here. He could sense it. “You don’t even look like a girl,” he said. “I am too a girl!” said Piffy. He didn’t think he would ever say that. “He is too a girl!’ said Aisha. “Prove it!” said Goober. “Show me your underwear!” “I don’t have to show you anything!” said Piffy. Now Goober was having second thoughts. Maybe she was a girl. She acted like a girl. She looked like a girl. He would find out! It was his duty as a Muslim. No girl dared talk to a future Mujahideen like this little snip was walking to him! Goober moved so quickly he caught Piffy by surprise. He grabbed Piffy where no decent girl wants to be grabbed in public by so despicable a creature. It was then that Goober realized with whom he was dealing. “Allahu akbar!” he shrieked. “It’s Piffy!” That was when Piffy hit his assailant a blow any ten-year-old would have been proud of. Goober went down like the Titanic—only quicker and with a lot less noise. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. There were shouts and cries of alarm and then Piffy was out the door and down the street into the glowering dark, dressed as a girl, without a cent to his name and not the slightest idea of where he was going. (To be continued)