Free Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper by Barbara Silkstone Page B

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