My brain was denying what I could see of the apartment. The place leaned heavily into czarist-Russian, opulent with a riot of gingham and paisley. A zebra skin chair in the corner with a marble bust of Zeus on a table behind it. On a mahogany table behind the sofa rested two blue Delft porcelain bowls. A Roy Lichtenstein painting sat over the fireplace with a Ming-dynasty tiger perched below. A plasma television dominated the room. I was knee-deep in an out-of-body-experience.
Tick introduced his female relative. “This is my sister… Jorjaokeef.”
Roger grinned. “Georgia O’Keeffe?”
The little man shook his head as if we were the most naïve of visitors. “No… say like one word. I will soon teach you to speak our language. Jorjaokeef is a famous artist in our village.”
My out-of-body experience wasn’t getting any more in body.
“May I use your toilet?” I was busting despite the lack of fluids.
He instructed the lavender-eyed lady to escort me. Fiona tagged along.
The bathroom was a tiled delight. Rich ceramic and gold faucets. The peddling business must be pretty lucrative. The toilet paper could use some softening, and the smell of the eucalyptus soap was overwhelming.
Fiona chattered to me through the door sticking her fingers under the bottom like a child. I needed some timeout from the little librarian.
A stone ashtray rested on the commode tank. Hmm. Might need that. I weighed the guilt of stealing another weapon against the monkey-shines Tickemoff had put us through. I dumped the ashtray in my pocket restocking my weapons cache.
Tickemoff turned to Fiona. “What is the pretty lady’s name? I will give her a gift of one of my sister’s paintings as a ‘so sorry’ for making her the mummy. Pick one and I will write her name in Egyptian over the front of it.”
Fiona blushed a shade of red that would have made Nancy Regan drool.
Roger gave me his version of the Zoolander Blue Steel look. It was his early warning signal. I stepped back towing Fiona with me. The twinkle in her eye told me she was taken with the idea of having a signed original painting.
“Fi –” she began. The woman was way too trusting.
“Fifi,” I said.
Tickemoff scrawled something in Egyptian across the painting in black magic marker. “For Fifi,” he said.
Fiona took the painting repeating ‘thank you’ half a dozen times.
“That will be two hundred US dollars,” the peddler said extending his hand.
“Nice try, buddy,” Roger said, handing the painting back to Tickemoff. He maneuvered Horus’s cage around Fiona and me and scooped us out the door.
Fiona whimpered as she grabbed for the painting and missed.
“We’re out of here,” Roger said.
Tickemoff blocked our way. “The painting is now spoiled with Mademoiselle Fifi’s name,” he bawled. “You must buy it. It is no good to sell to another.”
Roger pushed the cage against the peddler’s chest knocking him back against the wall with a clunk. Horus tumbled from his perch and let out an angry squawk.
“Wait! Wait! I will take the bird in trade,” Tickemoff said grinning at Horus.
“The hell you will.” Roger poked his fist in the Tick’s face.
“So! New deal!” the peddler persisted. “I have rare hieroglyphics. Ancient writings. Special price today as I have many sisters to feed.”
Roger and I burst out laughing while Fiona stared from us to Tickemoff and back.
“Okay! Okay!” The Tick protested. “No hieroglyphics. I have essences. Perfumes!” He ran to a cupboard and opened the door. Clutching two bottles, one blue and one bright purple, he ran at us tripping over the hem of his galabia and losing his grip on the containers.
Airborne, the bottles spewed the stench of rancid flowers, toilet deodorizer, and ancient melons. I held my breath, covered my head, and went low. Tickemoff stood motionless absorbing most of the nasal bomb. Then like a schoolgirl faced with a cockroach he began shaking his hands and screeching.
“The only thing we need is petrol… and a car,” I said pinching my nose as I stepped into his funky cloud.
The peddler’s eyes rolled like the meter on a gas pump. “Hmm. I have some petrol here somewhere. My cousin Amon has a car but it has no engine. Perhaps I have a Fiat motor in here.”
Tickemoff pulled garments from an ornate trunk. A dozen tiny King Tut dolls tumbled to the ground. He held one up, waving at Fiona.
This character would be a great opening act for the comedian Gallagher. If I wasn’t tired, hungry, and pissed, I’d have laughed.
“He’s having at us,” Roger said. “We’re leaving.”
As we turned to leave I stumbled on my lopsided shoe. Walking was tough enough without the cockeyed angle of a heel-less shoe.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of ladies shoes… US size eight?”
The peddler ran to a rather abused extra-large FedEx box. “I have shoe! I have just your size. Very comfortable.” Clothing, hats, handbags, he flipped them all over his head, coming up with a red Converse sneaker with white laces.
Tears pooled in my eyes. Comfort. “How much?”
“This is a very good shoe. “I will take one hundred dollars… US.”
I growled. “No you won’t. You’ll take twenty bucks.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Sold!” He passed the sneaker and stuck out his hand for payment.
“Where’s the other one?”
“You did not say you wanted two shoes. I have one shoe. Take it or leave it.”
“Where’s the right sneaker?”
“I sold it to a lady from Singapore.”
The thought of ashtraying him came to mind. I looked at my aching left foot. The top of my ankle was screaming take the deal. The tendons in my arch yelped in agreement. “Ten dollars. No more.” I turned to go but I was faking. I needed that damn sneaker.
“Is deal,” he said.
I now had a slightly used red sneaker on my left foot and a designer peep-toe pump on my right. I tucked the damaged left in my purse and staggered to my feet. My spine would never forgive me.
Tickemoff escorted us down the stairs. “Goodbye my friends. Safe journey. May we meet again!”
Roger stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked both ways, like a good little boy ready to cross the street. “I don’t see anything suspicious. Let’s go back to the Pillar to see if we can find Petri.”
We trudged the drifted sand. It was like walking through uncooked grits carrying a fifty-pound stone. I wished for Scotty and the transporter beam.
“Can’t we please stopover in Alexandria? Find a hotel. A cool shower. I smell. You smell. We all smell.”
“You all better tell me what’s going on!” Fiona yelped.
“Or…?” Roger cut her an irritable look.
“Or… I’m a really good biter.”
“Later, little bit,” he said.
“I wanna stop for ice cream!” Fiona said.
“Where would you purchase ice cream?” I snapped.
Her bottom lip quivered as she looked around. I felt like a louse. “Be patient. I’ll treat you to a giant sundae when we’re done.”
The Frenchman was leaning against a Land Rover near the base of Pompey’s Pillar. Fiona ran ahead. Roger banged Horus’s cage against his legs. And I hobbled sneaker-to-heel bringing up the rear.
“No gas,” Petri said. “No rental cars. No taxis. The government has declared a state of emergency.”
“Can we get a hotel?” I asked.
“Let’s head toward the Temple of Taporisis. It’s only twenty-eight miles from here as the falcon flies. If we can’t make it before sunset I’ll release Horus with a message for Sir Sydney. He’ll send help,” Roger said.
“And what’s our address? How is he going to find us?” I took off my shoe and tested the sand. It was hot as hell. “Get real. We can’t hike two miles let alone twenty-eight. You’r
e offering us a ticket to death by dehydration. We need a better plan.”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Do you want the list of wrong-steers now or later?”
He pulled a water bottle from his left jacket pocket and sipped till it was empty. He was buying time to concoct a scheme. “The average man can walk four miles per hour. If we keep that pace we’ll be at Taporisis in seven hours.”
I looked back over my shoulder at Alexandria and then forward into the desert. Not a vehicle in site. The country was in lockdown. No one was going anywhere including us.
“Sacre bleu!” Petri cursed. “How could I have forgotten?”
He’d been silent for so long, when he finally spoke he scared the breath out of me. This better be good.
“There is a small oasis approximately three miles from here. We can release Horus with a message for Sir Sydney. At least we will have a point of rendezvous.”
“See. We’ll be fine.” Roger wore his know-it-all face.
Since it was the only plan we had, it was a good plan. I slugged a mouthful of water, tucked the bottle back in my bag, and stepped in line behind Roger and Petri. Fiona toddled after me as we hit the sand, again.
Chapter Fifteen
We had been hiking for twenty minutes when a herd of camels loped over the dunes. Shit! Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I recognized Darcy on the lead hump. She’d shed her striped robes but there was no mistaking her silhouette. Dressed in layers of white she looked like a king-size mattress mounted on a dromedary. She’d put on some weight. Good.
I covered my mouth with the corner of my robe and took a deep gritty breath. This was it. I was weak from dehydration and had reached my expiration date. One final round with the queen of stalkers… that’s all I had left in my frail frame. Blotting my enlarged pours and smoothing my frizz-ball hair, I got ready to do battle.
As Darcy reigned in I noticed her camel was outfitted in a Gucci saddle with a matching fanny pack over his hindquarters. He wore beaded necklaces, chest bands, and knee covers. He was way over-dressed for the occasion. The critter kicked up a spray of golden sand and snuffled to a halt. His camel buddies brayed and snorted standing at a respectful distance.
I checked Roger’s expression. If he looked the slightest bit glad to see her, his future sex life would make a Tibetan monk look like Hugh Hefner.
“Roger,” she said in a Marilyn Monroe murmur.
Damned if I was going to let her know she upset me. I nodded toward her squad. “I see you’re dating again. I forgot to ask you when we were playing in the river, how’d you escape from the asylum in London?”
Darcy looked down her nose. “Easy, peasy. I walked out backwards, waving hello.”
She turned her shoulder to me, cutting me out of the conversation. “Look Roger, baby, you can’t get to Taporisis without camels. I have camels. You need camels.” She took off her hood and fluffed her highlighted hair. “I want in on the find. I want my face on the cover of People.” She ran her tongue over the sand that stuck to her lip gloss. The broad was a ringer for a plus-plus size Anna Nicole Smith.
Roger shot me a look. This was his adventure. Not my call.
He cut his eyes to Darcy. “How are you controlling these camel guys? Are they mercenaries?”
She licked her crusty chops appearing to mull over his question. “They get a percentage of my take.”
“There is no take!” I snapped. “Our fee is not divisible.”
“Then walk. When your face turns to leather, think of me.” Once again Darcy’s man-hands were on her hips.
I chuckled. “Whenever I see Leather Face in a horror movie I think of you.”
She came at me, swinging.
I ducked but the wind from the blow made me teeter.
“Sir, you might reconsider. We are at a slight disadvantage,” Petri said.
Roger nodded and stepped around me. “Darcy, I need to know the deal you’ve cooked up with your little posse. My reputation is on the line. I’d sooner walk to Taporisis than lose my good name.”
“It’s a long walk,” she said. “Before we go any further, who’s the kid?” She pointed at Fiona.
“I beg your pardon!” Fiona gathered herself to her full height. “I am a certified librarian. Not a child. I assist people in finding information.”
Darcy sniffed, wiped her nose and spoke. “I can see where this classy expedition would require the services of an in-house librarian.”
I leaned in to whisper in Roger’s ear. “That bitch is so damn competitive. Don’t let her join us. She’ll grab our glory and run.”
Roger did a double take. “Pot to kettle? She’s competitive?”
“Damn it! I was trying to keep a straight face!”
“Humph! Fair enough. Full disclosure.” Darcy turned to the bowling pins. “Allow me to introduce the captains of my team. Sheik Fronc and his brother Sheen. They are renowned biologists.”
Roger let go with a sarcastic snort. Two of the camels batted their eyelashes at him. Snorts must mean something in camel.
“Are they also mercenaries?” Roger raised his voice. The stress was starting to show on Mister Perpetually Mellow.
“Shoot no. They’re Ishtars. Nomads who breed show camels. They’re harmless and take direction well… kinda like your secretary, Wendy.”
My blood pressure shot through the top of my hoodie and my fangs came out.
“I am NOT Roger’s secretary. I’m his partner. And I take direction from no one.”
She ignored me again.
I was aching to put out her lights. My fists balled up as I mentally went toe to toe with her.
“I’m backing their latest creation and they’re supplying me with camels and manpower,” she said.
My nemesis turned in a sweeping bow and presented two of the taller men to us. “Gentlemen, this is my dear friend, Doctor Roger Jolley, the world famous archaeologist. You may trust him.” She shot me a snarly glance and body blocked me from the group.
I stepped around her.
Neither Ishtar presented their hands for shaking. Good. Germ count down. The shorter robed dude, Fronc, took a box from his saddle. The box was old, brown, and about the size of a large custom-made cigar box. There was a ring of air holes round the sides and a picture of a camel on the lid
Darcy hovered over the Ishtar biologists, two words I never thought I’d hear together. Her complexion was sunburned but dewy. How did that broad do it? I checked her nails. Yup, a French manicure.
The taller Ishtar, sporting a pencil thin mustache and Groucho Marx eyebrows, laid an ornate rug on the sand and placed the box in the center. The other Ishtar did a drumroll on his thigh with his palms. When he finished they both clapped their hands and pointed to the box. Who said Vaudeville’s dead?
Chapter Sixteen
Petri, Fiona, Roger and I stared at the box with the picture of camel on the lid.
Roger knit his eyebrows together. “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
Darcy chuckled. The two Ishtars elbowed each other and chortled. Sheen opened the box and gently produced what appeared to be a miniature camel covered in curly tan hair. The creature steadied his skinny legs as Fronc placed a second one by its side.
“Camapoos,” said Darcy.
Fronc elbowed Sheen and they both tittered. “Our first pair of breeding Camapoos. The lighter one is the female.”
I blinked my eyes. The animals were less than a foot tall with curly hair. They had to be toy camels but they were moving so realistically. “Animatronics?” I asked.
“Look closely,” Darcy said with a superior grin on her Botoxed lips.
I crouched down and peered at the tiny dromedaries. They were perfect mini-camels down to their cud-chewing mouths. I blinked my eyes and put my hands on my forehead. “It’s the heat. The sun. It’s a mirage.”
Arms crossed, Darcy stood with a triumphant attitude. “Fronc and Sheen are extraordinary biologists. They have crossed
the species barrier many times.”
“I’ll bet,” I said making a point of staring up at her silicone boobs. “Thanks for the shade.”
Roger lifted one of the camels. “The average camel is six feet at the shoulder.” This little fellow is barely eight inches high.”
Camapoo in hand, Roger turned to Sheen. “This has to be a hologram. Camels mate by mounting from behind. It can’t be done. Was the original mother the camel or the poodle? A camel would have crushed the poodle.”
I squinted trying for a visual.
Sheen grinned, his teeth so uniform they resembled a white picket fence. “The father was the poodle. We use a mixture of pheromones, hormones, and Old-Spice. And there is one more secret ingredient but we will not share that with anyone.”
“Where did you come up with the idea for Camapoos?” Roger asked, placing the tiny critter back on the cloth.
“The Discovery Channel.”
“I gotta start watching that station,” I mumbled.
Fronc look at me. “Haven’t you heard about the work of cross-species and chromosome-painting among camel, pig, and human? Eons ago camels were originally pigs… indirectly. Anything is possible with patience.” His brother nodded sagely.
My mouth was bone dry from the desert. Maybe my brain was too. But for whatever reason I wasn’t in-body. “How does chromosome-painting apply to these little fellows?” I asked.
“We have worked from the pig-concept to this…” Fronc sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“And you won’t. It’s our secret. Not even our illustrious backer, Professor Darcy Bone knows the secret.”
Sheen went all dithery. “We will make a big, how you say, a killing… selling pocket camels. Then my brother Fronc and our families will retire to Gulf Shores, Alabama. You have heard of this place? They are said to have the best oysters in the world. I love oysters. I also enjoy spending time with blondes and long walks on the beach.” He leered at me and did everything but ask me what my sign was.
“You see a market for these… camels?” Roger asked.
Sheen looked at Roger as if the archaeologist were the dumbest guy on the planet. “We will sell them to the Russians to fight foreign cavalry.” He leaned in. “Horses are much afraid of camels. They fear their very scent. Every Russian soldier will carry a pocket camel. Miss Darcy has made a scheme.”
Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper Page 7
