The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 29)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF versionFor once Bernard Piffy was at a loss for words. He had no idea of what he should do. He was in a cell full of dead roaches in the basement of a Madrassas not in an emergency room at a Metropolitan hospital where trained medical personnel looked after rape victims or in a woman’s shelter where psychiatrists and psychologists with more degrees than he had days in school had some idea of what would work and what wouldn’t. But he tried his best and if cursing were part of the healing process he might have been some help. He tried to make Henrietta as comfortable as possible. He wrapped his coat around the kid’s shoulders, found a clean spot on the floor; helped him sit down. He took the bloody underwear from his hands and then didn’t know what to do with it, so he stuffed it in his pocket. He thought of making a cobweb poultice—yes, a cobweb poultice—he had read about them in a Jim Hatfield Western when he was a kid though he didn’t know what they were used for or where to apply them. He dabbed at Henrietta’s face with the one piece of Kleenex he could find that hadn’t already been soiled with his own blood. It was only when he started singing the Mockingbird Song—tra la la twiddle-dee dee-dee—that Henrietta calmed down. He put an arm around the kid’s shoulders and squeezed gently. Henrietta snuffled. “Why would they do such a thing?” he wailed. “They’re Muslims,” said Piffy. “Damn them!” said Henrietta. “They’re sexist, chauvinist, homophobic pigs,” said Piffy. “Who?” Henrietta asked. . “Muslim men,” said Piffy. “But Islam is a religion of peace and tolerance, Uncle Bernie,” said Henrietta. “That’s what they want you to think,” said Piffy, “but they aren’t any more tolerant than the Nazis that wiped out the Warsaw Ghetto. You could fit all the tolerant Muslims in England in a Dogpatch outhouse…if you’d have been caught in Riyadh or Teheran dressed like you are you would have been stoned. Muslim men don’t like happy women. You were too happy for them, kid. And you were dressed inappropriately—provocatively. Women like you—well, you know what I mean—women, in general, frighten them…happy women.” “But the vast majority of Muslims are good, decent, honest, peaceful people, Uncle Bernie,” said Henrietta. “They’re moderates.” “Moderates?” said Piffy. “Yeah, I suppose…and so were those millions of people who lived in Nazi Germany in the 1930s and didn’t do a damn thing to stop the Holocaust. Moderates don’t make waves, kid…there’s a Mad Mullah in every mosque listening to what is said…Hundreds of dhimmis and Kafirs are beaten and killed every day by Jihadists just like those bastards that worked you over and it’s done all over the world and right here in England too and the moderates never open their mouths. And you know why…because they prefer the slavery of the dar al-Islam to what we have in the good old U.S.A. Freedom terrifies them. They’re Nazis—they’re fascists. They would have served Hitler better than his Germans did.” “I can’t believe that,” said Henrietta. They were silent for a while. “It’s a funny religion,” said Piffy. “All the things they can’t do…no whoring, no drinking, no carousing…at least not on this man’s earth. And it’s the little things, too—no laughing, no blind dates, no mixed bowling, no Sadie Hawkins Day. Fun is wrong; it is un-Islamic. You can do all the drinking and whoring you want when you get to Heaven. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like paying for your sins before you commit them. (Suddenly his mind wandered) “And round them shall serve immortal boys of perpetual freshness, never altering in age. If you saw them, you would think they were scattered pearls. (And then back to reality) “Allah must have had you in mind when he coined that one, kid. “And the women in Allah’s Great Whorehouse in the Sky—they’re all virgins! Especially created by the master to serve the needs of the Mujahideen! I suppose the few Muslim women that actually get there from Saudi Arabia or Afghanistan—like Hanadi Jaradat or Yvonne Ridley—will be put to work scrubbing floors and washing clothes for the in-house virgins. A Muslim woman could get a better deal at Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion and she wouldn’t have to worry about going to hell for disobeying her husband. (Again his mind wandered) “The Believer will be in Delightful Bliss. On couch-like thrones, gazing, their thirst slaked with pure wine. (And back to reality) “If the men get virgins what will the women get—aside from the scrubbing and washing? I would think Allah’s Great Whorehouse in the Sky would be a place Bill Maher would want to go.” He glanced at Henrietta. “I’m not boring you, am I?’ Henrietta didn’t answer. His eyes were focused on the cell door. Allah’s Cro-Magnons were back. They had come up so quietly Piffy hadn’t heard them—either that or he had been so enthralled by his own voice, he hadn’t cared. Now he could care—and care a lot. “Piffy?” said one of the Cro-Magnons. The cell door swung open. Piffy got up, brushed the dirt from the seat of his pants. He dug Henrietta’s bloody bra and panties from his pocket, returned them to their owner. He gave the kid a wink. “If I meet St. Peter first,” he said, “I’ll put in a good word for you.” And then it was back to the interrogation room. He sat down on the chair in the middle of the room. He had to wait a few minutes for Mohammed Atta and Hani Honjour. There was a third man with them—an old acquaintance of Piffy’s from his days as an octogenarian. It was Habib, the Wizard of Hogwarts; the man who was to have turned Piffy into a fairy prince but instead had given the detective and his friend Otis the Star of David raincoats. Atta stopped directly in front of Piffy. He looked at Habib. “Is this the man that blasphemed Allah’s Apostle?” he asked. Habib squinted at Piffy. He couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, pushed his face to within six inches of the private eye’s battered visage. Piffy wrinkled his nose, drew back as far as he could. “What the hell happened to you?” he said. “Fall in a sewer? You smell like bin Laden’s bladder!” Habib scowled. The words were familiar and the voice sounded the same. “I don’t know,” he said. “If he were 40 years older…maybe…could you make him say, ‘You couldn’t turn Arnold Ziffel into a pig if you were standing in Muhammad’s asshole?’ That’s what he said and it would help if I heard it again. ‘You couldn’t turn Arnold…’” That was as far as he got. Atta hit Habib so hard he knocked the Wizard to his knees. “Swine!” he shouted. “No wonder you were booted from the Hufflepuffians!” “To think of all the time and money we wasted getting this wretch into Hogwarts,” said Hanjour. Habib cowered on the floor as if he expected another blow. “I was only repeating what the dhimmi said,” he whimpered. “Stupid fool” hissed Atta. “Is this all you wanted me for?” asked Piffy. “No,” said Atta. “We wanted to ask you one more time where you got the dog.” “The dog?” said Piffy. “I got him from Harry Potter.” Habib lurched to his feet. “He lies!” he screeched. “This man does not know Harry Potter! He has never been to Hogwarts!” “It was Abu Afaq,” said Hanjour. “He got the dog from Abu Afaq.” Nothing would convince him otherwise. Habib cuffed Piffy across the face. Piffy grimaced. “One of these days…” he said, “one of these days…” He was tempted to make that day right now but the odds would have been ridiculous. “Enough of this!” snapped Atta. “Take him back to the cell and set the timer for ten o’clock.” Timer? Cell? Ten o’clock? What was he talking about? It didn’t sound good—whatever it was. It was then that Hanjour produced the bomb. It was a frightening thing. A clock, some wires and a couple of sticks of dynamite…Maybe they had never heard of plastic explosive…perhaps plastic wasn’t scary enough for them. Accompanied by Habib, Hanjour and the bomb, Allah’s Cro-Magnons escorted Piffy back to the cell in the basement. From there Piffy and Henrietta watched as Hanjour set the timer for ten o’clock. “What is that thing, Uncle Bernie?” asked Henrietta. “It’s our passport to the Pearly Gates,” said Piffy. Hanjour limped over to the cell. He glared at Piffy. “It was Abu Afaq, wasn’t it?” he said. “Go to hell,” said Piffy. “Dhimmi swine!” snarled Hanjour. “We’d better hurry,” urged one of Allah’s Cro-Magnons. “We’ve only got ten minutes!” Yes, ten minutes! Only ten minutes… (To be continued)