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     I caught a taxi back to the Parc 55, paid a visit to my safety deposit box at the front desk, and then went upstairs to my room on the 14^th floor.  

     Sitting at the writing desk, consulting Jake’s checklist, I made certain to write down the correct serial number he gave me on a clean sheet of the notepad’s paper.  Satisfied it was right, I tore the new note out of the pad and placed it inside a Parc 55 envelope; leaving it unsealed.  I then slipped the envelope inside my windbreaker.

     Afterward, taking out an O’Farrell Theater business card, I checked the phone number scrawled on its back, and dialed the number.  It rang a few times, and eventually a sleepy sounding stripper, Gia DeCarlo, answered.  After we chatted a bit, I apologized for waking her, and told her to go back to sleep.

     Going downstairs, I grabbed another taxi in front of the hotel, and asked the driver to drop me at Polk and O’Farrell.

     I reached this corner at 1:26 P.M., and stood for several moments in front of the delicatessen directly across the street from the O’Farrell Theater.

     Frankly, dear reader, I froze up; for I was going to light a fuse.  The question was this: will it be a long fuse or a short fuse?  Will I get out of the deli alive?

     I took a deep breath – my balls in both hands - and stepped inside. 

     Slowly, deliberately, I moved to the glass, cold-cuts display counter at the rear of the deli; immediately spotting the Arab kid; my sandwich maker from last night.  He was placing a tray of sliced salami inside the display case.  Wiping his hands on his apron, he glanced at me as he stood upright.  I removed my dark glasses and smiled.  Instantly he recognized me, and gave me a huge grin, as he said in Arabic, “Hello, my friend.  How are you this day?”

     “I’m quite well, thank you for asking”, I also replied in Arabic.  “And how are you and your family today?”

     Okay, dear reader, so what’s with all this small talk?  Working and living with the Saudis for six years, I was taught never to be impolite.  You always beat around the bush - ask regarding the family - never getting to the purpose of one’s visit at the get-go.  This is why doing business with the ragheads is comparable to being in a perpetual state of slow-motion.

     After conducting our polite, little Arab dance, I at last got to the reason of my visit.  Taking out Jake’s checklist, making certain I got the name right, I asked in Arabic, “Does a Makmoud work here?”

     “Makmoud?” the Arab kid asked. 

     I nodded in the affirmative.

     “Oh, yes...he’s butchering meat in back,” the kid confirmed in Arabic.  “Shall I fetch him for you?”

     “That would be most helpful if you would,” I replied in Arabic.

     The Arab kid flashed me another grin, saying in Arabic, “But of course.”  Then he stepped through an open doorway, covered by plastic strips, and vanished into the back room where the meat locker is kept.

     While I waited, slipping the notepad with Jake’s checklist back inside my windbreaker, I took out the Parc 55 envelope.  Then put on my dark glasses.

     After a couple more minutes, a heavy-set Syrian male in his late thirties appeared from the backroom.  His dark, unruly hair was barely contained by an Islamic, embroidered, kuffiyah skull cap, matching his equally-unruly, full beard.

     Honest to Allah, dear reader, this guy could have been a poster boy for al-Qa’ida!  Hey, Dude, don’t you know this is not a popular look?  Except what can one expect from a stoner of “adulterous” women, who gets down on all fours pointing his anus at Allah when he prays.  An Islamic prayer ritual I’ve never been able to get my head around.  No wonder their Allah has abandoned them; prompting them out of frustration to hopelessly strap bombs to their bodies.     

     As he approached me, Makmoud wiped blood from his hands on his grimy, white apron.  Making me wonder what, or who, he had been butchering.  From the moment he laid eyes on me, Makmoud screwed up his thick, dark brow; creating a suspicious scowl.

     Switching to English, I asked, “Are y-you Makmoud?”

     The Syrian nodded and replied with a “grunt.”

     Don’t you simply love it, dear reader, when a civilized question is answered by an uncivilized grunt?

     Without bothering to utter another word, after all what’s the point, I handed Makmoud the Parc 55 enveloped.

     His scowl deepened, Makmoud hesitated, and I actually detected fear in those dark, beady eyes.  Very reluctantly, he in due course took it.

     As for me, I turned and quickly walked away.  As I reached the front door, I looked back at Makmoud, who’s taken out the note and examines it with another intense scowl.

     So by now, dear reader, you’re no doubt itching to ascertain what the fuck is in my note.  Here it is.

     The Note:

     “I have what you want.

     Serial Number: EG&G KN2.

     Bring $30,000 USD cash.

     Room #1405.”

     Already printed at the top of the note was the Parc 55 Hotel’s logo, plus the hotel’s address and telephone at its bottom.

     I apologize, dear reader, for this note only adding to the mystery.  Be patient, and you shall see how and why this cryptic missive will lead to violence and bloodshed.  I promise.

     Quickly leaving the deli, I crossed the street to the O’Farrell Theater, and snagged one of two taxis patiently waiting in front.  I told the driver to drop me at the entrance of Pier 39.

     After which I leaned back and exhaled an extreme sigh of relief, dear reader.  Apparently the fuse I had lit was a long fuse, allowing me time to escape the deli with my life intact.  Nonetheless, being forced to wait this fuse out ratcheted up my piano string nerves.   

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