The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 25)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF versionPiffy was caught between a rock and a hard place; between the devil and the deep blue sea; between a last tango in Paris and a dance with the devil in Hell. With the muzzle of Hani Hanjour’s Glock 17 pressed to the side of his head there wasn’t any time for prayers—no Last Confession; no Hail Mary; not even a Jesus Saves! He was less than a second from eternity and a dumb headline in the newspapers—if they ever found his body. He managed one word—just one word; maybe it was wait; yeah, wait, as it “Wait! Can’t we talk this over?” But there was no talk—they had run out of time. And then there came a terrible unearthly shriek, a cross between the cry of a gorgon being devoured by a plague of locusts and a hundred cats with their tails caught in whirling airplane propellers. It swept across the room and beat against the walls. It was puppy dog! The mutt came out from under the bed or maybe from out of Piffy’s pocket—no one would ever know. It tore into Honjour’s foot like a chain saw ripping into an old board fallen loose from a Dogpatch outhouse. Hanjour screamed. He pulled the trigger of his Glock 17. The bullet slammed into the ceiling. His face dissolving into shock, horror and consternation, he looked at the thing that was devouring his foot! Mohammed Atta had drawn his gun at the first sign of trouble. He was dancing around trying to get a shot at whatever it was that was eating its way through Hanjour’s Buster Brown footwear Piffy was not one to let an opportunity pass. He looked about for a weapon. He found a perfume bottle. It wasn’t much but it would have to do. He was Mayberry’s all-time dump-the-clown-in-the-water-tank champ and he couldn’t miss at this range. Hanjour was screaming and pointing his Glock 17 at puppy dog but he couldn’t get a clear shot. Atta was hesitant, afraid of shooting Hanjour instead of the jinn. Then he saw Piffy and he swung his weapon toward America’s last great living private detective. But Piffy had already cut loose with his famous Mark 'The Bird' Fidrych curveball. It hit Atta right between the eyes. The assassin lost his balance and stumbled over a footstool; he went down, his gun flying from his hand. Piffy did not try for the weapon—he wouldn’t have made it anyway. He had another idea. He leapt across the room, snatched up the dog carrier and turned out the lights. “Puppy dog! Puppy dog!” he shouted. And then he ran—he ran for his life to the room with the open window. Ahmad was still on the floor where Piffy had left him, hogtied but awake and trying to get loose. Piffy turned off the lights. He worked better in the dark. He could hear Hanjour screaming and Atta cursing back in Aisha’s room. There would be no pursuit—not for a while, at least. He squeezed through the window and down the ladder—pet cage and all—as quickly as any jack tar who had ever negotiated a ratline on the HMS Bounty. Aisha was waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder. She was trembling. “What happened,” she asked breathlessly. “Are you…are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said. “But I guess we lost puppy dog…what a brave mutt!” He took her by the hand. “We’ll have to get a taxi,” he said. “I’m afraid,” she said, then, “Where are we going?” “To my apartment,” he said. “Is Bernie there?” she asked. He didn’t answer. Her Bernie was long gone—gone forever. How could he tell her that? Perhaps Asma bint Marwan could turn him into a ten-year-old again…but no, that would be ridiculous! He wouldn’t want to go through that again. “We’ll go to my apartment,” he said. “And then we’ll get you to Social Services. I’ll talk to Stumble…” Stumble? That would be absurd! Stumble wouldn’t know the real Bernard Piffy from Adam. Oh, what a fine mess he had made of things, but he had had to do it to save Aisha and now he was sure to get in big trouble. They walked in silence for a while. Then a cab came along and Piffy waved it down. They got into the back. Piffy set the now useless dog cage on the seat between them. He was getting ready to close the door when Aisha grabbed his arm. “Wait! Wait!” she yelped. Good grief! What now he thought! Had she forgotten her fingernail polish? “It’s your doggie!” she said. Sure enough—it was puppy dog! The mutt was racing down the sidewalk toward the taxi. Piffy held the door open long enough for the animal to leap into the back and it was soon curled up in its cage sound asleep. Piffy got Aisha settled in his apartment, told her not to let anyone in under any circumstances, said he had to see Deputy Chief Constable—a white lie—and then took puppy dog for a walk in the park. It was not just anyone who would take a dog in a carrying cage for a walk in the park in the middle of the night but he wasn’t going to stay in an apartment with an unrelated ten-year-old girl no matter what. It might be okay in Bill Maher’s America but it wasn’t in his and Piffy would make sure he had plenty of witnesses to his presence in the park. He was taking no chances. It was a long night. He dozed on and off, had a long conversation with a wino; smiled at a sodden lady of the evening. Dawn came and at last he fell asleep on a park bench. When he awoke the sun was already high in the sky. On the way back to his apartment he picked up the morning edition of the Daily Mail. One item caught his attention. Man Loses Foot in Madrassas Explosion Hani Hanjour, 29, an Asian immigrant lost his left foot in an unexplained explosion at the Ahmad Madrassas late last night. Emergency room surgeons said Hanjour’s injury was similar to those caused by shoe mines in World War Two. Mohammed Ahmad blamed the explosion on Islamophobia. Well, that would put a crimp in Hanjour’s style. It served the devil right. The wages of sin! There was a bigger surprise waiting for Piffy when he got back to his apartment. Aisha was not alone. Cowsnofsky met him at the door. “What are you doing here?” said Piffy. “I’ve come to help you,” said Cowsnofsky. Piffy was not so sure about that. He glanced at Aisha who was standing beside Cowsnofsky. “I told you not to let anybody in,” he scolded. “They said they were your friends,” said Aisha. “They?” said Piffy. “Hi, Bernie,” gushed Henrietta. Piffy had been about to say something when he caught sight of the cross-dresser. His mouth opened—he got that part right—but his brain went into neutral and his eyes went into overdrive. Wow! He had never seen so ravishing a creature! She was beautiful! She took his breath away! She was as blonde and as curvaceous as Daisy Mae Yokum…as fresh and as well-scrubbed as a starlet trying out for the part of Nancy Drew in a TV series…as long-limbed and as sensual as Leslie Caron gliding across a dance floor with Fred Astaire…as…as…”Who are you?” he gulped. “I don’t remember seeing you at Joe’s Bar and Grille…” “It’s Hank,” said Cowsnofsky. “Joe’s nephew. He likes to dress like this.” “Oh, yeah,” remembered Piffy. It was Joe’s cross-dressing nephew! The wind came out of Piffy’s balloon so quickly it left him not only disappointed, but also angry. What was Joe’s nephew doing here? This was hard-boiled serious private eye business! It was as dangerous as all get-out! A person could get killed doing what Piffy did! He glared at Cowsnofsky. “Who else did you bring?” he said. Just then the toilet flushed. “Just the misses and Henrietta,” said Cowsnofsky. “That’s all.” Piffy grimaced. It was enough. Mrs. Cowsnofsky squeezed into the crowded living room .She was short, blonde and vigorous. She had muscles where Henrietta had curves. She was a flinty, non-nonsense dame. She could have been related to Rooster Cogburn. She looked Piffy up and down. “So, you’re the famous private eye I’ve been hearing so much about,” she said. Piffy was impressed. She could have played middle guard for any of the Green Bay Packer football teams of the 1960s and have held her own. The introductions had scarcely been completed before a fierce thumping commenced upon the door to Piffy’s lodgings. It was the building super. Standing beside him were two men loaded down with pipes and wrenches. “What is it?” said Piffy. “These gentlemen are here to make your toilet more user friendly,” said the super. “User friendly?” said Piffy. “Are they are going to make it flush every time or are they going to fix the seat so it doesn’t pinch?” “Naw, you’ll have to do that yourself,” said the super. “They’re here to turn the toilet 90 degrees so that it won’t be facing in the direction of Mecca.” “You’ve go to be kidding!” snorted Henrietta. “This is England,” said Cowsnofsky. “They do strange things here.” The plumbers exchanged knowing glances and, gathering up their pipes and wrenches, they hustled through the crowded living room into the bathroom. By then the super had spied puppy dog’s cage. “So you still got the mutt, ‘ey?” he said. “Didn’t I tell you to get rid of it?” “The dog’s dead,” lied Piffy. “I’ll bury it this afternoon.” He would have preferred burying the super’s head in the cage but that would have been more trouble than it would have been worth. The apartment was too crowded for comfort and soon after the super left Mrs. Cowsnofsky decided to take Henrietta and Aisha shopping. The plumbers broke for lunch at eleven o’clock, after only an hour on the job, and Piffy was left alone with Cowsnofsky—but not for long. There was a tap on the door. It was Deputy Chief Constable Stumble. He had two men with him, one was Mohammed Ahmad—the other was introduced as Sharia Judge Maliki al-Maliki “Sorry, boys,” said Piffy. “The toilet isn’t ready yet.” Stumble looked Piffy over carefully. There was something familiar about him but he shrugged it off. “We’re not here to use the toilet,” he said. “We’re here for the girl,” said al-Maliki. “For my daughter,” said Ahmad. “And to arrest a fellow named Bernard Piffy,” said Stumble. (To be continued)