The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 30)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF version“What are we going to do, Uncle Bernie?” wailed Henrietta. Piffy stared at the bomb. It wasn’t much—five sticks of dynamite, some wires, a clock and a detonator; Mike Hammer would have ignored it—but it was more than enough to send Nick and Nora Charles (or was it Bert and Ernie) to Purgatory or to Plains, Georgia, if not to Hell. He shook his head. It didn’t look good. “I don’t know, kid,” he said. “If we had more time we could do the Stations of the Cross but two or three Hail Mary’s…even if we could remember the words, isn’t going to do much.” They had ten minutes! Nine, now…maybe only eight and a half! They could scream, curl into a ball; hold their breath, pray. It was a shame they didn’t have more options. “If we had a fire extinguisher or a garden hose we could spray it with water,” said Henrietta. “Yeah, there’s a fire hydrant right outside,” said Piffy. “You’re being sarcastic, Uncle Bernie,” said Henrietta. The kid was right. At least he was thinking—he hadn’t panicked. They could put that on his tombstone—Henrietta, brave kid, never panicked, but Bernard Piffy did or at least he was on the verge of it. But what could he do? They were up the Sahara without a fire extinguisher, without a garden hose, without a drop of water. He wouldn’t give a bucket of cold spit for their chances. And that was when he thought of something, something so strange and bizarre it just might work. The black Transylvania garlic! He grabbed his coat, searched frantically through the pockets! Yep, there it was—the garlic! His fingers a-tremble, he opened the package. If he could chew up a good mess of the stuff and spit it across the floor the chances were better than fifty-fifty that he could gum up the timer parts of the bomb! Yeah, he could stop the clock! He could coat the detonator with saliva! It was worth a try! He was sure he could hit the clock nine-out-of-ten times if he tried. He had won the Mayberry Tobacco-Spitting Championship for both distance and accuracy when he was ten-years-old! Ten-years-old! He had been a Phenom! A sensation! His grandpa had secretly trained him for months before springing him on Mayberry. Grandma, of course, had been furious when she had found out and grandpa had been forced to camp in the spare bedroom for weeks on end but he said it was worth it—Bernie had won the Tobacco-Spitting Championship and had become the hero not only of Mayberry but also of the George 'Gabby' Hayes Society. Of course that was the last time Piffy had ever held chewing tobacco in his mouth—Grandma had seen to that. Now with his life on the line he would get one more chance to demonstrate his unique skill. He hoped he could remember more than he had forgotten. “What are you doing, Uncle Bernie?” asked Henrietta. “I’m chewing garlic,” said Piffy. He stuffed another clove into his mouth. “When I’ve worked up a good mess I’m going to spit it on the clock. It will keep the damn thing from going off!” “Will that work?” said Henrietta. He was on his knees stripping the wire from his bra. “You bet,” said Piffy. He swished the garlic around in his mouth, pressed his face between the bars, took aim and let fly. It was a great shot! Grandpa would have been proud of him! Heck, Gabby Hayes would have been proud of him! The garlic splattered across the face of the clock. Sure, it was disgusting but what else was he to do and he was encouraged. Yeah—encouraged! This was war and he was an artillery officer just like his great-grandpa had been in World War One! He launched one salvo after another until his jaws began to ache and Atta’s homemade bomb disappeared under a tidal wave of garlic and black saliva. By then he was getting low on his precious weed and something unsavory had crept from his stomach into his mouth. “I’m going to need a stomach pump before I’m done with this game,” he groaned. He grabbed at a cell bar; he was sweating profusely. If he never saw another clove of garlic it would be too soon. “Well, at least I won’t get cancer or E. coli,” he mumbled. (He was well aware of garlic’s medicinal value) Piffy wondered how much time had elapsed. Two or three minutes perhaps—no less than that he hoped. He glanced at Henrietta. My goodness! The kid was on his knees trying to pick the cell lock with a wire from his Maidenform! How ridiculous! “You can’t pick a lock with a wire from a bra, kid,” he said. “I can too!” said Henrietta. “No,” burped Piffy. “It can’t be done. Sabrina Duncan tried it. She couldn’t do it and neither can you.” “I beg your pardon!” said Henrietta. He stood up and the door swung open. Piffy was surprised but not amazed. His stomach hurt, his jaws ached horribly and something was burning in his throat. “I guess I was wrong,” he said. He looked around the cell. “We better get out of here. There’s no telling how many of these bombs Atta and his pals have left lying around this place.” They had scarcely left the cell when they came face-to-face with Cowsnofsky. The best damn sanitation engineer ever to unclog a drain at Joe’s Bar and Grille and Gun Club had a flashlight in one hand and the puppy dog cage in the other. “What are you doing here?” gasped an incredulous but thankful Piffy. “I’ve come looking for you,” said Cowsnofsky. Piffy eyed the cage. “And you brought puppy dog?” he asked. “Naw,” said Cowsnofsky. “Your dog ran away. I brought the cage so I would have something to put him in case I found him.” “Puppy dog is loose?’ said Piffy. “Yeah,” said Cowsnofsky. “And boy, can that mutt dodge traffic! I swear he goes right between the wheels of the cars.” “He ran away?” said Piffy. “I let him out for some air,” explained Cowsnofsky. “I thought it would do him some good. He was whining and whining. He wouldn’t eat anything. When I gave him one of my slippers to play with he tore it to shreds and then got after Mrs. C’s platforms. He made so much noise your super came up to complain and the mutt got after him—ripped his pants to the crotch. Then what’s-his-name—Mr. al-Maliki—showed up. He was mad because I changed the toilet back to the way it was. That fellow doesn’t know a one damn thing about bathroom configuration! Pointing in the direction of Mecca—My God! Was I glad to get rid of that bastard! That was when your dog ran away. I followed the mutt for a block but he was too fast for me so I thought I’d come down here and see how you were doing.” “You did well, Cowsnofsky,” croaked Piffy. Cowsnofsky eyed the private detective. “Are you okay?” he asked. Of course Piffy was not okay. He had consumed far more garlic than was normal and on an empty stomach and it was boiling up from inside. He reeled, grabbed at the cell door for support. It he wasn’t careful he would lose his lunch. “Uncle Bernie had too much garlic,” said Henrietta. “Really?” said Cowsnofsky. “It never bothers me.” It was then that he noticed Henrietta—the kid’s tattered clothes, his still bloody face. “My God!” cried Cowsnofsky. “What happened to you?” He paused, shook his head. “Oh, no, “ he said. “Don’t tell me! They didn’t…Oh, God! Joe’s going to kill me! I was supposed to watch out for you!” “I’m okay,” said Henrietta. He wasn’t okay but he would act as if he was. That’s how Bernard Piffy did it. The ensuing silence was shredded by a voice that screamed at them from out of the gloom. It was Habib, the Wizard of Hogwarts. “I told you! I told you!” he screeched. “We shouldn’t have let them alone! They have escaped! See! See!” Habib wasn’t alone. Hani Hanjour was right behind him and then came Mohammed Atta and two of Allah’s Cro-Magnons. “Well, well, “ cooed Atta. “What have we here?” He was holding his left hand behind his back and he had a Glock 17 in his right. He waved the Glock at Piffy. One of the Cro-Magnons eyed Henrietta. He was large, dull and drooling at the mouth. Visions of a temporary Islamic marriage danced in his head. “The spoils of war,” he mumbled. Habib did not miss a beat. “Force not your slave-girls to whoredom if they desire chastity,” he said, “But if anyone forces them, then after such compulsion, Allah if oft forgiving.” Piffy, his stomach churning, had all he could do just to hang on to the cell door. Hanjour produced a snub-nosed .38. The Cro-Magnon advanced on Henrietta. Habib was enjoying himself immensely. “You may have whomever you desire; there is no blame,” he intoned. “It says so in the Qur’an.” Henrietta was obviously no match for the Cro-Magnon. He backed warily into the cell and tried to shut the door but the massive Jihadist was too quick for him and before the kid could slip around the behemoth or retreat into a corner of the cell for a last stand, Allah’s minion had him by the wrist. Cowsnofsky, as agile as the All-State wrestler he had been in high school, leapt into the cell, grabbed the wretch by the shoulder and smote him a terrible blow. The Misunderstood Muslim collapsed across Henrietta’s feet. Hanjour aimed his .38 at Cowsnofsky. Piffy lunged for Hanjour but the crippled Jihadist stepped aside and the private detective lost his balance and sprawled across the floor. But he had the last laugh—he vomited across Hanjour’s legs. It was enough to draw the Jihadist’s attention away from Coswsnofsky and to disrupt his aim. Piffy lay on the floor for a moment, gathering his strength. Where in the hell was puppy dog? Where was the mutt when you needed him? He rolled over, got to one knee. And there was Mohammed Atta, towering over him. Allah’s assassin had the Glock 17 in one hand and a tiny cage in the other. It was the cage that caught Piffy’s attention. There was something in it—locked up safe and sound. It was puppy dog! “Ah, jeez,” he groaned. How could that have happened? “Killing disbelievers is a small matter to us,” gloated Atta. (To be continued)