The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 17)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF version He wasn’t the first naked ten-year-old boy the prostitute with the heart of gold had ever seen, if indeed she was a prostitute, but it was the first time she had seen a naked ten-year-old boy that was supposed to be a girl and she recognized the difference immediately. She was surprised, that’s all—not flabbergasted, not astounded, not astonished merely surprised. Piffy, on the other hand, was as close to being totally, completely, unreservedly and incontinently discombobulated as he had ever been. To say he was mortified wouldn’t have been close. He grabbed an armful of Algernon’s clothes and tried to hide behind them but there was too much Piffy for the amount of clothes and the messages his brain was sending to his hands weren’t getting through and he was being undone by his own excitement. “Well, well,” said Yasmin. “You really had me fooled. Tell me, dearie, who are you running from? Tariq Ramadan or Anjem Choudary? They say there’s a hot little boy for every Mad Mullah in London.” “I…I…” mumbled Piffy. He turned away from her His heart was thumping furiously. He tried to steady himself. Why couldn’t Algernon have been six-foot-six instead of four-foot-four—the dirty rat! He tried to shove his foot into a pant’s leg, lost his balance and fell flat on his face. If he could have, he would have laid there for the rest of his life but he had to get up. He made it to one knee before Yasmin caught him by the hand. She pulled him to his feet and gave him a great big hug—yes, a great big hug, crushing him to her bosom so fiercely it left him not only breathless but as giddy as a Boy Scout at a Hugh Hefner garden party. She sat him on a chair. “Now, dearie,” she said, “tell me what’s going on and don’t make up any stories. I’ll know if you’re lying.” Piffy gulped. He couldn’t tell her the truth—she wouldn’t believe it. She would think he was lying. He looked at the floor. “Do you know Asma bint Marwan?” he mumbled. When she didn’t say anything, he looked up at her out of the corners of his eyes. And there was Algernon A. Algernon behind her with something in his hand—a rag of some sort. He lurched to his feet but he was too late. Algernon clamped the rag over Yasmin’s mouth. Piffy could smell chloroform. He watched helplessly as Yasmin sank to the floor unconscious. Well, this was a fine how-do-you-do! He looked at Algernon, at Yasmin, at the pile of clothes on the floor. Right then and there he made up his mind: He wasn’t leaving Yasmin’s flat dressed as a girl! He made a mad dash for the pile of clothes. He grabbed Algernon’s pants but he was a man trapped in the body of a ten-year-old boy and the imp was as strong as a demon, stronger than a mere jinn; almost as strong as a gremlin from Hell! He never had a chance. “Darn it!” he wailed. There was a commotion in the corridor and someone started banging on the door. “Are you all right, Yasmin?” a voice called. Algernon quickly locked and barred the door. He looked at Piffy. “Put your clothes on,” he said. “We’re getting out of here!” “I’m not gong dressed as a girl!” pouted Piffy. “Give me some of your clothes!” “I thought we settled that?” said Algernon. “Do you want to go naked?” Piffy eyed the bustier and the French maid costume. No way! It would only draw more attention to him. He dressed as hurriedly as he could in the clothes Aisha had lent him. He would get Algernon for this…he would get Asma bint Marwan for this too…and Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour and Yaser Abdel Said… They left through the window and within a matter of seconds were zooming through the fog-shrouded streets of London in Algernon’s 1927 Hudson Essex. He had expected a Duesenberg. They could have been Bonnie and Clyde—or Clyde and Clyde. That would have been fine—much better than Barney Oldfield and the late Princess Diana, yeah, a blind Barney Oldfield and an about to be dead Bernard Piffy. Maybe it was the first near miss or the pedestrian Algernon almost ran over at an intersection. Maybe Piffy should have noticed it as soon as he got into the car—Algernon could scarcely see over the steering wheel. Another car zipped by altogether too close for comfort. “I think you had better let me drive,” said Piffy. “You? Drive?” scoffed Algernon. “You’re a kid. Kids don’t drive cars.” “They do too!” said Piffy. “Not boy kids that wear dresses,” said Algernon. “I’m an adult trapped in the body of a ten-year-old,” said Piffy. “I can drive.” Algernon didn’t answer. “I can drive better than you,” challenged Piffy. “Anybody can drive better than you. At least I can see over the steering wheel.” That wasn’t smart. Algernon took his eyes off the road to focus them on his obstreperous passenger. “Hush!” he warned. “Driving is taxing enough without having to put up with someone like you. One more word, young lady, and I’ll take you over my knee!” “Look out!” screamed Piffy. Algernon swerved just in time to avoid a head-on collision with a truck. Piffy made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” he said. Algernon’s eyes were back on the road as the 1927 Hudson Essex barreled through the night. “Did you say something?” he asked. “I’m praying to St. Anthony,” said Piffy. “St. Anthony?” echoed Algernon. “Yes, to St. Anthony. I’m praying to St. Anthony to come and kick the crap out of you like he did that time behind the bar,” said Piffy. Algernon remembered that particular incident very well. It still stuck in his craw. “That pot-bellied, washed-up old has-been?” he snarled. “The Patron Saint of Lost Items? What a joke! He couldn’t find rooster poop in a henhouse.” “He could too!” said Piffy. “You ought to get a real patron saint,” said Algernon. “Someone like Wenceslaus or Bernardine. Yeah, Bernardine! Maybe she could cure you of wearing dresses. But Saint Anthony…” “What about St. Anthony?” someone said from the back seat. Algernon glanced at the rearview mirror. There wasn’t supposed to be anybody in the back. He wasn’t running a taxi service and the last stowaway had three bullet holes and twelve stab wounds in him. “Who are you?” he demanded. Piffy looked into the back seat. He would have recognized the tonsure and the apple dumpling cheeks anywhere. “It’s St. Anthony!” he gasped. Saint Anthony smiled. The glow lit up the car like the noonday sun. “I don’t like the way your friend is driving,” he said to Piffy. “So, if you don’t mind, I’ll take the wheel.” And he reached into the front seat. Piffy was horrified! Maybe he shouldn’t have prayed so hard! The last thing he had wanted to do was start a war over a steering wheel—but, apparently, that is what he had done and it would be a hot war too. St. Anthony had put his left hand on the steering wheel and was reaching with his right for the aspergillum that dangled from a cord on his belt. Algernon had no intention of submitting meekly. He kept one hand on the steering wheel—with the other he dug a small cat-o’-nine-tails from one of the car’s convenience pockets and began flailing at St. Anthony with as much gusto as the narrow confines of the front seat provided. “Oh, dear!” said St. Anthony. “I didn’t know this Guardian Angel business could be so stressful!” “Give up, Kuffar?” screeched Algernon. St. Anthony hit the imp on the head with his aspergillum so forcefully that Algernon lost his grip on the steering wheel and the car went out of control. It veered across the median and struck a parked car—or maybe it was a fence or a wall or a building. Piffy never did find out. He was stunned by the impact and tumbled into the back seat. By the time he regained his senses Algernon and St. Anthony were long gone and a dozen Bobbies had surrounded the 1927 Hudson Essex which was lying on its side beneath a street lamp. Whistles were blowing, lights were flashing on and off and a large crowd was gathering. “Come out with your hands up!” someone shouted. Piffy crawled out on his hands and knees. It could have been worse—he could have been wearing the bustier or the French maid costume. (To be continued)