Sûrah XIV
ABRAHAM
"Lo! Allah is swift at reckoning."

14
HONEST ABE

GREER

You told him WHAT?

PISTOL

Only that she lives here.

GREER

"Only"... CHRIST! You outta your skull?

PISTOL

He said he's a friend o' hers, from back home.

GREER

From C.I.S, you mean. Or Homeland Security. He flash I.D.?

PISTOL

I told ya; all he did was ask for some weird name, and I go "no" and he goes "Please, you look at this" and it was Z.

GREER

He had her mug shot?

PISTOL

Just a photograph. Her and some other babe in a jeep. Like

s at camp. You know, in uniforms kinda?

GREER

I knew it; knew it; KNEW IT!

Duke ambles in...

DUKE

You knew what?

...deposits his helmet into an empty chair, grabs a beer from the antique fridge, and plops his lanky self between the two antagonists.

DUKE

What's gone down?

He looks from Greer to Pistol...back at Greer... waits for an explanation.

GREER

Honest Abe, here, finked on Z—who, I might add, is a guerrilla.

DUKE

As in oversized chimpanzee?

PISTOL

"Ooo, Ooo, Ooo."

GREER

As in commando—ignore the geek—or Hamas or maybe al-Qaeda.

PISTOL

No way. A Girl Scout troop's more likely.

GREER

That was her Scout Master rang our bell; the guy you finked to?

PISTOL

Hey, I didn't fink; he knew she was here.

GREER

You confirmed it.

DUKE

Greer's got a point; coulda been Immigration.

PISTOL

C.I.S., I.R.S., what about P.T.A.? You guys go ape-shit just hearin' snippets of the goddamn alphabet. Pshew! Pshew!

Pistol shoots them both with his simulated gun, re-holstering thumb-and-finger in a patented trademark pantomime—summary executions his stock and trade.

DUKE

You pay Uncle Sam his annual pound of flesh; we don't. What this fella look like?

PISTOL

Kinda short, I guess, and stocky. Beard and moustache. Jet black hair—real Chinatown dye job, unless, you know, it was real.

DUKE

You see him, Greer?

GREER

I wish; no. If I had, I woulda tracked the motherfucker back to headquarters.

DUKE

Z check in?

Greer shrugs.

PISTOL

'Bout noon. Not since what's-his-face came round to call.

GREER

To spy, he means.

PISTOL

What's with these plots? I see a guy just tryin' to hook up with his countryman, pure an' simple.

GREER

I see a sleeper cell. Z's incognito. You blew her cover.

PISTOL

Man, you're sick.

He turns to Duke.

PISTOL

You know this asshole wouldn't bare his buns up at the Hot Springs? Ninety degrees in the shade, Greer's dressed tip-to-toe in leather, sweatin' from every pore like a half-baked pig, and wouldn't so much as shed his Black Bart bandana; claimed all the yuppie nudists worked for Livermore Lab.

GREER

Genentech.

PISTOL

Whatever.

GREER

It's a clique. They're up there bioengineering our fucking futures; Hitlers in the buff. Gotta blueprint for Adolph's blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryans. That "New Age," "herbal" rhetoric's just a front.

PISTOL

I rest my case.

DUKE

Don't know much about Harbin; something is sorta fishy 'bout Z. I mean, I like her; she's a roomy, so we'll close ranks; no question there. But sounds like heavy-duty shit, no matter who this dude is after her. I'd say it spells trouble—hope I'm wrong—with a capital T.