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.
“Heisa 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—tooscared 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 dullthong!“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.”
