The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 28)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF versionWell, at least he had found Henrietta. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A couple of thugs—Asians, Jihadists, Islamo-fascists, boogermen, Cro-Magnons: call them what one would—came out of the shadows to reinforce Atta and Hanjour. Piffy was searched. They took his wallet; his cell phone, his complimentary Tenth Anniversary Shell Scott Pick and Skeleton Key Ring and they found the quarter pound of black Transylvania garlic Algernon A. Algernon had left in his pocket. One of the Islamic Cro-Magnons eyed the package suspiciously. “What’s this?” he demanded. “Garlic,” said Piffy. “He can keep it if he wants it,” said Mohammed Atta. They stuffed the package back in Piffy’s pocket. Atta waved the gun he had been holding to the side of Henrietta’s head toward the far end of the basement. “Move,” he said. They moved. Piffy and Henrietta were pushed into the cell Ahmad used to discipline recalcitrant students and the door clanged shut behind them. The place smelled of tobacco and was full of cobwebs and dead roaches. Piffy couldn’t help wondering if Aisha had spent some time in there. “Make yourself comfortable,” said Atta. “We’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Mr. Anjem Choudary will be making a little speech and al-Maliki is to present Ahmad with the Qur’an Mohammad Sidique Khan used the morning he blew up London’s commuter trains. It will be quite an event. Tariq Ramadan is expected.” “Have fun,” said Piffy. “But I want you kids back before two o’clock in the morning.” Hani Honjour did not appreciate the humor. He limped toward the cell and glared at Piffy through the bars. “We’ll be back, dhimmi swine,” he promised, “and you will get yours!” In another minute they were gone. Piffy sighed; he looked for a place to sit down. There wasn’t any. “Well,” he said, “this is another fine mess I’ve gotten myself into.” “What are we going to do, Uncle Bernie?” wailed Henrietta. Piffy shrugged. He was a model of nonchalance. “Well, if they hadn’t taken my skeleton keys and lock picks we could be out of here in ten seconds and if they hadn’t taken my cell phone I could call Deputy Chief Constable Stumble—he’s upstairs. He could lead a cavalry charge or something.” “We’re in big trouble, aren’t we?” said Henrietta. He was on the verge of tears. “There are times I wish I wasn’t Bernard Piffy,” said Piffy. “There are times I wish I was somebody else.” “Like who?” sniffled Henrietta. “Well, if I were Maxwell Smart,” said Piffy, “I could take a hacksaw from somewhere out of my Buster Browns and we could saw our way out of this place in a couple of days.” “Who’s Maxwell Smart?” asked Henrietta. Okay, so the kid didn’t know who Maxwell Smart was but at least his mind was off the mess he was in and that was a good thing. But Maxwell Smart—that was not a good choice. There had already been enough bumbling on this ‘caper.’ “How about if I was Tiger Mann?” suggested Piffy. “Now there was a guy. If I was Tiger Mann I could bend these bars with my teeth and we could walk out of here, straighten them up and nobody would be the wiser.” “Tiger Mann?” said Henrietta. “Was he a real person?” He was sniffling again. “Tiger Mann was an associate of Mike Hammer’s, I guess,” said Piffy. Jeez! Why was he always stuck with the kids? Yeah, the kids…it was always the kids…the children… the girl children…first Aisha and now Henrietta. It wasn’t natural. He didn’t even like kids. Maybe he had better try a different tack. “Suppose I were Sabrina Duncan,” he said. He paused. Maybe he had better not go there. Ah, what the hell. “If I were Sabrina Duncan,” he said, ”I could use the wire from my bra to pick the lock or I could strip the elastic from my pantyhose and make a slingshot. Of course, Stumble would probably arrest me for possession of a dangerous weapon.” “Sabrina Duncan?” said Henrietta. “I know you’re trying to cheer me up, Uncle Bernie, but who’s Sabrina Duncan?” “She was one of Charlie’s Angels,” said Piffy. Maybe he wasn’t getting through to the kid. Maybe he was just too old to communicate. He was silent for a while. “Is it okay if I start praying, Uncle Bernie?” asked Henrietta. “Go ahead, kid,” said Piffy. “And don’t call me Uncle Bernie.” So Henrietta prayed—he got down on his knees and prayed. He prayed to Jesus and to St. Anthony—mostly to St. Anthony. Piffy did not join in. He was not much for praying. Maybe if it had been somebody other than St. Anthony. He still had ‘issues’ with his self-appointed novice guardian angel. He sat on the floor with his back to the wall. He counted the number of bars in the cell as Henrietta droned on and on. Maybe he should have been planning an escape but he was in a worse fix than any Houdini had ever been in and it seemed a waste of time. He would see what Atta and Hanjour were up to. The time passed quickly—too quickly. In less than half an hour two of Atta’s Cro-Magnon Jihadists were back. They unlocked the cell door and gestured for Piffy. He got up, straightened his clothes and followed them. They went up the stairs, down a dim corridor and to a sparsely furnished room. There were a couple of chairs, a dresser and an end table—nothing else. Piffy was told to sit in one of the chairs. Mohammed Atta and Hani Honjour were already in the room. They closed in on Piffy from either side. “Where did you get the dog?” asked Atta. “What dog?” said Piffy. One of the Cro-Magnons hit Piffy across the face with the back of his hand hard enough to knock the private detective to the floor “Get up,” ordered Atta. Piffy got back on the chair. He was familiar with the routine. “Where did you get the dog?” repeated Atta. “You mean the puppy dog?” asked Piffy. Wham! Allah’s Cro-Magnon hit him again and down he went again. This time when he got up a flap of skin inside his mouth was brushing against his teeth. “Where did you get the dog?” repeated Atta. Piffy sighed. This could go one forever. “I got him from St. Anthony,” he said. “Impossible!” screeched Hanjour. “St. Anthony doesn’t have that kind of power! It was Abu Afaq, wasn’t it?” “I got him from St. Anthony,” repeated Piffy. Another back of the hand and down he went again—so much for telling the truth. “St. Anthony is not the Patron Saint of Dogs,” mused Atta. He studied Piffy’s battered face. “You got the mutt from St. Roch, didn’t you?” he said. “Come on, you can tell us.” “Yeah, sure, it was St. Roch,” said Piffy. Blood was pouring from his nose. Who in the hell was St. Roch? He had never heard of him. He would have to study up on this religious stuff. “He’s lying!” screamed Hanjour. “It was Abu Afaq!” They hit Piffy again and again and again…so many times he lost count as well as his ability to answer questions. After what seemed like a light year minus a super nova the two Cro-Magnons dragged him back to the cell in the basement. Slowly Piffy’s head began to clear. Someone was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. It was Henrietta. As soon as he became aware of the proximity of his head to ‘Hank’s bosom he drew away from him. “It’s okay, Uncle Bernie,” said Henrietta. “I’m not gay.” “You’re not?” said Piffy. ”Of course not,” said Henrietta. “I’m a cross-dresser.” “Oh, yeah,” said Piffy. He remembered now. He wished he had paid more attention to the things he had been told at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club. But as usual, he hadn’t. He felt his jaw—it wasn’t broken. He looked at the empty box of Kleenex and the pile of bloody tissue on the floor. Henrietta had done a great job of cleaning him up. “Look, Hank,” he said, “I don’t know what kind of fascination you have for me but I’m an ordinary guy. I’m not a deep thinker. When it comes to psychology I’m behind the curve. I rely on Rooster Cogburn and Jed Clampett and so far they haven’t failed me. When it comes to the big minds…like Norman Mailer and Bill Maher… well, Mailer lost me after The Naked and the Dead and Bill Maher has always been fructose light so if you’ve got anything you want to get off your chest you might as well do it now.” “I thought we might team up,” said Henrietta. “Team up?” echoed Piffy. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what that meant. Henrietta’s face lit up. “Like Nick and Nora Charles,” he said eagerly. “You could be Nick and I would be your beautiful wife, Nora. We would be the greatest husband and wife private detective team ever. I could go under cover. We wouldn’t really be married. I wouldn’t want to sleep with you—that would be yucky!” “Yes, it would,” agreed Piffy. “Do you remember the guy that dressed like a women in that Mike Hammer story and had Mike fooled right to the end? Well, I would be like him only I wouldn’t be fooling you and I’d be a good guy.” It was too much for Piffy. He was hoping the Cro-Magnons would come back to check the ventilation or something. “Or we could be Pam and Jerry North,” Henrietta said. He was getting excited. Piffy gnawed at the loose piece of flesh hanging on the inside of his mouth. “I wouldn’t be much trouble,” said Henrietta. Piffy was getting desperate. “How about Dave Addison and Maggie Hayes?” he suggested. Henrietta didn’t like that a one bit. “No,” he pouted. He might as well have been Shirley Temple. “I don’t like Dave Addison. He’s a brute.” Piffy sighed. “You’d have to get a license,” he warned. Maybe that would discourage him. “You’d have to be trained in the martial arts. You’d have to learn to shoot like Rooster Cogburn.” Henrietta was not fazed in the least. “If I learn to do all that will you take me on?” he said eagerly. “Well… maybe,” said Piffy. Now why in the hell did he say that? Was he losing his mind? Take him on? That was downright frightening! “We have to get out of this mess first,” he said. “Then we’ll see.” Henrietta was repairing his makeup when Atta’s Cro-Magnons returned. “We want the he-girl,” said the larger one. The door opened. Henrietta was scared—who wouldn’t have been? “Don’t give in to the bastards,” said Piffy. “I won’t, Uncle Bernie,” Henrietta whispered hoarsely. Piffy must have dozed off for a while. It shouldn’t have been surprising—he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since he had landed in England. Winkin and Blinkin and Nod had been dogging him for days. Now suddenly he was awake and he didn’t like the feeling. Something was wrong. He could sense it. Lugosi was stirring in his coffin and Charlie Brown's stomach was hurting. Allah’s Cro-Magnon’s were bringing Henrietta back to the cell. He was crying. When they got close Piffy could see that his clothes were torn and he was carrying his underwear in his hands. They opened the door and shoved him into the cell. He would have fallen if Piffy hadn’t grabbed him. One of the Cro-Magnon’s made a coarse joke about ‘dhimmi women’ and they went back in the direction they had come. Piffy looked at Henrietta’s bloody underwear. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Tell me they didn’t…” “Uncle Bernie…Uncle Bernie…” cried Henrietta. (To be continued)