by Jill Barnett
His head jiggled and bobbed and his knees banged against the divan. The bells on his shoes rang like sleigh bells, and the sound of his things crashing together echoed a hollow sound throughout the bottle.
At one point, the bottle slammed so hard he lost his grip and tumbled head over heels against the opposite wall.
Stunned, he sat up, his vision a gallery of blinking stars. He wobbled slightly and shook his rattled head.
Thankfully, the bottle had stilled. He stared at the mess, then planted his fists on his hips and said, “And Bowie Bradshaw thinks he’s got trouble.”
He heard a loud shout from a vaguely familiar voice. Actually, what he heard was a loud curse. Then it started all over—the running, then jostling.
Pillows sailed through the air. A wine jug broke loose from its fitting in the wall and spiraled toward him, crashing right above his head. A cupboard opened and fruit spilled out. Pomegranates, figs, kumquats, and dates rolled like billiard balls across the carpets.
His turban flew one way, he flew another. He smacked against the floor. Dazed, he struggled to sit up. A second later an ancient brass hookah came at him, tumbling end over end. He saw it coming. Fast.
The hookah slipped over his head, banging against his noggin with a loud bong! It was like having a palace gong clang through his head.
He sat there, somewhat lightheaded, and tried to push the blasted thing off. It was stuck.
He blinked but couldn’t see anything but the dark interior of the brass hookah. He raised a hand and felt around the opening. The water pipes were tangled around his neck like tentacles of an octopus.
He spat a healthy curse on the descendants of the idiot who invented the hookah, only to have his words come back at him in an irritating brass echo. He reached up and grabbed the brass handles and tugged.
His head was stuck in a hookah.
He sat there, hardly realizing that the bottle had ceased its wild motions. He had other problems.
He pulled and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. May Allah banish the cursed thing to the hottest and most desolate desert!
But first, he thought, let him get his cursed head out of it.
Chapter 14
“Smitty! What the hell are you doing?”
Margaret adjusted Annabelle on her hip and looked up. There was a wall of black smoke between them and the sound of Hank’s bellowing voice. “I hear you, but I can’t see you.” President Cleveland could hear him.
“Dammit, woman!” Hank was suddenly beside her, grabbed her arm, and pulled them away from the smoke to an area where the air was clear. “Are you trying to burn down the whole island?”
Annabelle started to cry. Margaret started bouncing her on her hip and scowled up at Hank. “Stop shouting.” She looked down at the baby. “It’s okay, Annabelle, he just doesn’t think before he shouts.”
Annabelle continued to sob. Hank scowled at the baby, then looked at Margaret as if he expected her to shove the baby at him as she had in the lifeboat. He stepped back, out of reach, and glowered at the fire as if he were trying to make sense of it.
Theodore stepped closer to her and tugged on her skirt. “I found a genie.”
Annabelle was still fussing loudly. Margaret brushed her tears away and continued to bounce the baby on her hip. “I don’t know anyone named Jeannie, Theodore.” Margaret stepped around him.
“His name is Muddy.”
“No. It’s not muddy, dear.” Margaret gave him a pat on the head. “The sand soaks up the rain.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Stand back, Theodore. The fire’s spreading.”
Hank kicked sand on the flames. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
He looked down and scowled in the smoking pot. “It’s blacker than lava rock in there.” He straightened and turned back to her. “Are you cooking or burning?”
Margaret raised her chin a notch. “Mussel shells are black.”
“I know that, Smitty, but they don’t smoke.”
“That’s steam. I’m steaming them.”
“Steam is white. Smoke is black.” He used his shirttail to pick up the handle on the hot pan—something she couldn’t do because the fire had been a little bit bigger than she’d planned. He turned the pan upside down and shook it, then looked up. “Stuck like tar.”
She had two choices: to continue her argument, which she knew was fallacious at best, or to capitulate. She stared at the fire. Cooking hadn’t been so easy.
Before she could say anything, Hank dropped the pan and bent down. He picked up the empty whiskey bottle, looked at it for a very tense second, then faced her. “What happened to my whiskey?”
“I needed fuel to start the fire, so . . . ” Her words just hung there.
“You used my whiskey to start a fire just so you could burn a pot of mussels?”
“No. I used the whiskey to make a flame that would burn long enough to light the wood—which was a shade damp from the rain—so then I could steam a pot of mussels.”
He was looking at the empty bottle as if he wanted to throw it somewhere, perhaps at her.
“Lydia is sick of bananas and if the truth be told, I am, too.”
He muttered something vile.
Theodore shifted closer to her and tugged on her skirt. He whispered rather loudly, “Why is Hank’s face so red?”
“He’s just hot, Theodore.”
“You’re damn right I’m hot!”
“Please stop shouting and swearing.”
“Like hell I will!”
“I wonder if the genie in the bottle is hot,” said Theodore. “I didn’t ask him. I should’a asked him.”
“Yes, Theodore, that’s nice,” she said with a cursory glance. “But right now Hank and I are having a discussion.” She turned back to Hank “You’re behaving poorly. I just used a little whiskey for a better purpose.”
“Little? This bottle is empty!” Hank tipped it upside down and shook it. “Empty!”
Theodore moved to stand between them and held up the silver bottle. “My bottle’s not empty. It has a real honest-to-goodness genie inside. Wanna see?”
Margaret didn’t pay any more attention to Theodore than Hank did. They were locked in a battle, and Margaret didn’t want to give in anymore than he did. Hank could be stubborn. She could be persistent. “Yes, well, I wasn’t certain how much of those spirits I needed,” she said.
“I had my own use for those spirits.”
“So I saw last night.” She looked him square in the eye, knowing her tone left no doubt as to what she thought of his drinking. She waited, then added, “My use is more logical and of benefit to all of us. I’m certain that if you would just stop shouting long enough to actually think about it, you’d find my use of that liquor logical, fair, and equal.”
“You think too blasted much.” Hank began to pace and muttered something about driving a man to drink.
“I could wish for something to drink,” Theodore said, still holding up the bottle so one of them would look.
Margaret crossed her arms. “There’s plenty of water.”
“The genie gave me three wishes. Real wishes.”
“There’s no one named Jeannie on the island, Theodore. No matter how hard you wish for it.”
“But I found a genie in a bottle! A real genie!
Look!” He pulled the stopper out of the bottle, and a cloud of bright purple smoke billowed out in a spiral. The clearing was suddenly silent.
In the distance, waves still washed the shore and the seagulls cried out, but those sounds were continual. Utter silence between the castaways was not.
Purple smoke flowed upward from the mouth of the silver bottle the way one imagined a ghost would materialize. It curled and wound upward, then seemed to flow in a circle above them like a hawk circled for food.
Margaret and Hank exchanged a stunned and wary look. Lydia gasped, and Theodore jumped up and down, saying, “See! See it!”
The purple smoke
spread out like a fan, then drifted to the ground where it billowed, then faded slowly.
“What the hell?” Frowning, Hank stepped closer. Margaret hugged Annabelle a little tighter. She stared at the smoke, then at the odd image before her. And she whispered, “Oh, my God . . .”
Muddy stood in the open, outside his bottle. But he was unable to see anything with the hookah on his head. Well, he thought, this ought to be interesting.
A woman screamed, “No, Hank! Not the knife!”
Muddy screamed. “Knives? Where?”
Instinctively he turned his head, forgetting he couldn’t see. The hookah pipes flew left, then right, and the brass pipe tips hit the base and rang like finger symbols in his ears.
“No knives!” he shouted and stuck his hands high into the air quicker than Bowie Bradshaw could draw his gun. He just stood there, his heart and head pounding and his knees knocking together like cracking walnuts.
“Muddy?”
“I’m here, Master Theodore.” Muddy paused, then whispered, “Are the knives gone?”
“I don’t know what kind of scam this is, chump,” said a man’s voice, “but you hurt this kid and I’ll use this knife so fast you won’t know what gutted you.”
Muddy forgot to breathe.
“No, Hank!” Theodore cried.
“Hank, please,” the woman said. “I don’t think he . . . it will hurt anyone. Look, its hands are in the air.”
“Yes, Hank.” Muddy stretched his hands even higher in the air. “Look. See? My hands are in the air.”
Muddy heard someone take a step. He flinched and sucked in a breath of fear. His eyes tightly closed, he waited.
Nothing happened.
After another endless silence, he heard a deep male voice. “What the hell is it?”
“I’m a genie!” Muddy yelled so loudly the reverberation made his eyes cross and he wobbled drunkenly. “Yeah, and I’m Aladdin.”
“Hank,” the woman warned.
“He is a genie,” Theodore said stubbornly. “And he knows Santa Claus, too.”
Muddy mentally groaned. Now there was an argument that would help convince them. He wanted to drop his head into his hands, but he was scared to death—not a good choice of clichés, you idiot—too scared to lower his hands.
“He is a genie!” Theodore said, his small voice panicked. “I know he’s a genie. He gave me three wishes ‘cause I let him out of the bottle.” He began to cry.
“Theodore . . .” the woman said calmly, apparently trying to soothe the boy.
“He is! He is! Tell ’em, Muddy.” Theodore cried harder. “Tell ’em who you are.”
“I am Muhdula Ali, purple genie of Persia . . .” Muddy bent over in a salaam and immediately regretted it.
He fell forward, face forward, and the hookah landed in the sand with a dull thong! “May Allah curse this thing!” He lay there, flat on the ground, muttering, his face smashed against the rough brass wall of the hookah. “This is worse than riding a drunken camel.” His voice sounded as if he was pinching his nose.
“Theodore, stay back!” the woman warned. “Hank . . . please.”
“I’m harmless!” Muddy yelled. “No knives!” His voice rang around him in a full minute of echoes. He lay there and groaned.
Then there was nothing but silence.
“Muddy?” Theodore asked quietly. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, master. I just have a slight problem.” He paused, then asked, “Is that Hank fellow still there?”
“Yeah. This Hank fellow is still here. And so’s his knife.”
Muddy swallowed hard, then said, “I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m just going to try to get up.” He waited, then said, “Pax? Truce?”
Hank didn’t respond, and the seconds seemed to stretch into minutes.
“Just make sure to move slow,” Hank finally warned. “Real slow and easy.”
Muddy got to his knees, but the weight of the hookah kept his head tilted on the ground. He grabbed the hookah handles, and as he straightened to his knees, he lifted his head upright with a grunt.
Theodore asked, “What’s that thing on your head?”
“It’s a hookah, master, a water pipe, and I cannot get it off.” Muddy pulled as hard as he dared, then moaned and sucked in a sizzling breath of pain.
“Does it hurt?”
Muddy nodded—a foolish move. His forehead banged against the hookah twice. Startled, he fell backward this time. He lay there, sprawled on his back, seeing an ocean of stars flash before his eyes like fireflies.
After a dizzy second or two, he answered in the quietest voice he could, “It only hurts if I try to pull it off, speak, or fall on it.”
It was tensely quiet, too quiet, which made Muddy wonder exactly where Hank and his knife were.
“I wish . . .” Theodore cried out suddenly, “I wish the hookah was off Muddy’s head!”
A second later, the hookah disappeared in a puff of purple smoke.
Hank stared down at some crackpot wearing earrings and stupid pants. The man was lying face up in the sand. He looked up at everyone, one by one, then lifted his fingers and wiggled them. “Howdy, folks.”
“Don’t move,” Hank warned, shifting closer and slowly waving the knife with the street skill he’d learned some thirty years before.
The man looked at Hank, then at the knife blade, which caught a flash of sunlight. His stunned eyes filled with fear and grew huge. He shook so hard that the small golden hoop earrings he wore in each ear quivered.
He was dark skinned and big nosed, with thick eyebrows, dark eyes, and a pointed chin covered with a small black goatee—the same color as his hair, which stuck out from his head like the spiky leaves of an island pineapple.
Even though he lay flat on the ground, his stomach was paunchy. He wore a spangled multicolored vest that Hank couldn’t imagine any man coming near—even for a bucketful of sawbucks—and a wide sissy belt that went with those fluffy purple pants.
It got worse. His shoes were some shiny green and blue fabric, like a woman’s fancy dress, all froufrou and shimmery. Hank looked down at the chump’s feet and almost groaned aloud. The toes of the shoes were curled up. And if that wasn’t bad enough, bells dangled from the tips like brass dingleberries.
Hank stared at the man’s wrists, which were banded with wide bracelets made of what was, to Hank’s practiced eye, eighteen-karat gold and worth at least a few months of living expenses. High living expenses.
Hank took a long and assessing look back up to the genie’s face. His dark eyes were wide and cautious, watching every motion Hank made. The guy’s face and neck were red from holding his breath.
“Stand up.” Hank gestured with the knife, and the chump was on his feet before those bells on his toes could ring.
Even though he looked like a nut, there was something harmless about him. Probably because he was shaking so badly his earrings and gaudy vest shimmied. It was hard to believe there could be any imminent danger from someone who wore the same pants as the belly dancer at Club Morocco.
Hank raised the knife and cast a quick glance at Smitty. She sat on a rock, her mouth open and her face pale. He turned back. “Okay, chump. Spill it.”
“What?”
“Your game.”
The guy frowned. “Chess? Badminton? Base—”
Hank took a step closer. “I’m no fool. What are you? Some kind of mesmerist? Magician? What?”
“I told you. I’m a genie.”
“Yeah and I told you I’m Sinbad.”
“Actually, you said you were Aladdin—”
Hank pressed the knife against the man’s neck.
“Sinbad,” he babbled in a rush. “I’m an ignorant fool who must have heard you wrong.”
“Don’t hurt him! Please don’t!” Theodore began to cry again, and he ran over and tugged on Hank’s shirtsleeve.
“Stand back, kid.”
“Muddy won’t hurt me. He’s a genie. He gave me wishes.�
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“Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as a genie, kid.”
“Hank.” Smitty said his name in a warning tone. He looked up at her. She frowned at him and gave Theodore a pointed look.
“Well, hell, there is no such thing, Smitty. You know it, and I know it. He might as well know it.”
Lydia looked up and spoke for the first time. “But then how did that hula thing get off his head?”
“Tricks, sleight of hand, mirrors,” Hank said.
“It’s not a trick! I wished it. I used one of my three wishes.”
“Thank you, Master Theodore. That was very generous.”
Hank watched the exchange, listening, but still trying to figure out where the chump had hidden the hookah.
“If you’ll remove your knife from my neck, I’ll prove that I am what I claim. A genie.”
Hank’s laugh was bitter. “Right.”
“Skepticism is as old as sand.” The chump sighed as if this were a tired argument. “I’ve had two thousand years of proving who I am to skeptics.”
“Just remember, one move that threatens any one of us”—Hank held the knife in front of the guy’s face and smiled without humor—“and I’ll be your last skeptic.”
Hank slowly backed away. He grabbed Theodore’s hand and pulled him back to the rock where Smitty still sat, silently and appearing thoughtful. She held the baby in her lap, and Lydia sat next to her. Hank watched for just an instant.
“Holy cow! Look!” Theodore began to jump up and down. “Look at Muddy!”
Hank whipped back around, the knife raised, and stared at the empty spot where the crackpot had been standing.
He quickly scanned the nearby bushes, thinking the guy had gotten away. Then he heard Smitty and Lydia gasp together.
“I’m up here.”
Hank looked up and swore.
“Sit!” Annabelle mimicked.
He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. He just stared up at the sky.
The crackpot was flying.
Chapter 15
“This is not happening,” Hank said.
