4th Wish

Abintra Press
www.abintrapress.com

Copyright ©2008 by Ed Howdershelt

First published in 2008, 2008

Sometimes the website construction business is a little too good. I stepped away from my computer around three on a Thursday afternoon and tried to shake some feeling back into my mouse-arm, then went to make a fresh coffee and walk around a bit to get the numbness out of my legs.

All three of my cats were parked on the windowsill above the sink. Moocher and Charlie seemed fascinated by the antics of one of the local lizards, which was doing pushups on the side of a planter and fluffing out its red throat ruff. Winston, the matriarch of the group, faced away from the action. She gave me a look that told me both the lizard and its audience were beneath her notice.

After cobbling together my coffee, I checked the cat food dispenser and freshened their water, then wandered outside into a hot, sunny Central Florida day. Something about the quality of the light and the way I could see far up into the clouds reminded me of a day at the beach some years ago.

'Funny,'
I thought,
'People spend big bucks to visit Florida and its beaches. I only live ten miles from a beach and haven't been out there in years.'
After a sip of coffee, I mentally added a sardonic,
'Must be a reason.'

Yeah, there's a reason. This area is a retirement community and the nearest beach is a colossal bore. Scalding sunshine, too little parking, grandparents and their grandkids everywhere, and flat, waveless Gulf of Mexico water.

On the other hand ... nubile young beach bunnies with fine, solid legs and butt-floss bathing suits could be found a mere twenty miles south at Hudson Beach and ... what the hell ... I needed to be exposed to some sunlight. I needed to get out and walk for no reason, thinking thoughts above and beyond the Internet.

Going back into the house—and momentarily breathing a sigh of relief at the cool air within—I headed for the bedroom, changed into cutoff jeans and put a towel in my small green backpack, then headed for the car before some stray thought could change my mind.

Southbound traffic on US-19 was sparse; most of it was heading out of St. Pete and Clearwater, not into it. But the Hudson Beach parking lots were crammed, of course. Oh, well. I turned off the engine and waited for a parking space to open, sipping coffee and listening to Sarah Chang tickle Tchaikovsky's 35th out of her violin. Definitely the good stuff, played by a beautiful woman with a talent on a par with that of Itzhak Perlman.

A couple headed for a blue Beemer. Nosing in close to block anyone else's access to the area fairly completely, I shoved my car into the space as soon as they'd moved aside, stashed my CD player in the trunk, and headed for the beach, whistling the music that had filled the car so well.

That didn't last long. Pink's
"Don't Let Me Get Me"
blared from the bar/snack bar's speakers. Different good stuff. Pink's got a helluva sexy voice and she'd be gorgeous without all the tattoos and funky rags. Great legs, too, as seen in a video for the
"Moulin Rouge"
movie. I happily switched to whistling Pink's tunes as I doffed my sneaks and crossed the strand.

Flat water here, too. Not like the Atlantic side, where three-to-five-foot waves are normal. The Gulf side's more like a lake, with wavelets that lap the shoreline. Shrug. Still, it's salt water. Scanning the beach, I saw a big sign—big enough to read from fifty feet—that said, “NO T-BACK BATHING SUITS."

Well, damn. The blue-nosed prigs are hard at work in Pasco County, too. No biggie; eyes and legs are my favorite female viewables. I looked around for the best concentration of such scenery and saw some beach bunnies clustered around the shaded bar. Good enough. I could handle a cold beer.

Heading toward the bar, I bashed my right big toe on something that barely budged on impact and nearly tripped me. After saying a few unkind words and checking my aching toe, I bent to uncover whatthehellever had assaulted my foot.

It was a Pinch booze bottle. No label and the exterior had been sandblasted to cloudy opaqueness by the elements, but the shape was distinctive. The bottle appeared empty, but was heavy as a brick. Holding it up to the sunlight, I tried to see what was in it. No luck. It still appeared empty. Pulling the stopper out, I looked inside, but saw nothing. Absolutely empty. Yet heavy as hell. Hmm. It was a curious thing, but I just wasn't interested enough to hang onto it.

There was a trash can near the bar. I tried to re-stopper the bottle as I walked, but the stopper didn't seem to fit anymore. Too much trouble to bother with. Sightseeing was what I had in mind. A distraction of female flesh and form to make me forget about the Internet code crap for a while. No more friggin’ puzzles today, please.

I trashed the bottle and stopper as I passed the can. As with the parking space, I had to stand by and wait for a barstool. At last, someone unassed a seat and I scooted in to grab it, then ordered a beer. Like I said, I like Pink's music. I hate rap and dislike whiny country, but otherwise, anything with a decent beat will do. Drumming my fingers on the bar, I tried not to be too blatant about eyeballing the nearby sun goddesses as I sipped my beer.

If a young guy leers—and they do, indiscriminately—the ladies think it's cute or cool and preen themselves or pose. If an older guy looks, it isn't always received well. I haven't figured that out, really.
All
guys look, and if that's all you're doing, what's the big deal? Besides, by the time we hit fifty, we only bother gazing at the really good stuff, so if an older guy eyeballs you, take it as a compliment.

After a cold beer, a short walk on the boardwalk and beach, and a return trip past the streetside shops later, I'd had enough sand and sun. I was ready to head home, clean up, feed myself, and see if there was some decent music at one of the local pubs. Just as I'd decided to visit Crabbit's Pub around eight, I heard a woman's rich contralto voice say, “Excuse me."

I looked up from unlocking the driver's door to see the face and shoulders of a truly superb late-twenties specimen of brunette womanhood standing on the other side of my car. In her light-tan jacket and skirt outfit she was dressed more for an office than a beach.
Wow! Tall. Beautiful. No, ‘gorgeous’ is a better word. Who did she kind of look like? Kate Vernon? Sort of? Lordy! Those eyes!

"Yes?” I managed to say when my eyes finally met hers. It seemed so inadequate. I'd wanted to say, “Yes,
please
,” or something very like it.

"We need to talk,” she said with an odd slight accent.

'Oh, hell,'
I thought. Nothing puts a man on the defensive faster than a woman saying,
'We need to talk'
. Automatically double your trepidation if you don't know her and triple it if you think she might work for any branch of the government.

I told myself to pull my tongue back in and be reasonably cautious. Twenty-something women who look like her aren't usually interested in over-fifty men who drive ten-year-old cars.

"Uhm, talk?” I asked, “About what, ma'am?"

Glancing around cautiously, she softly said, “I am in your debt. I must settle the matter with you properly."

Debt? Settle? Properly?
I felt like looking for the mothership. Or perhaps a hidden camera?

Looking her over again, I said, “Lady, I don't know you at all, and—
trust
me on this—I'd definitely remember a woman as beautiful as you for the rest of my life. Maybe longer. Just think a minute, okay? Are you
sure
you have the right guy?"

Smiling slightly, she nodded and rather firmly said, “Yes, I'm certain of that. You've done me a great service and now I must do something for you."

With a vastly skeptical gaze, I said, “Uh, huh. Well, excuse me for asking, but would that
'something that you must do'
later involve me paying you?"

After a moment, her gaze narrowed as she seemed to grasp my meaning. “
No.
You need pay me nothing. As I've said;
I am in your debt.
"

There was firm insistence in her tone. I took a quick glance around and didn't see any cameras pointed at me, but, then, cameras were always hidden on those insipid TV shows.

If she wasn't a hooker, maybe she was a con artist? Go somewhere to “talk", then have someone burst in claiming to be a husband and try to shake me down? Surely she could see I wasn't particularly rich.

I asked, “Exactly what am I supposed to have done for you?"

She lowered her eyes and said, “I think that would be better discussed in private."

Uh, huh. Ducking a bit to look through the windows, I saw she had no purse. Flat pockets on her sleek jacket. No keys or pocketbook evident. Well-dressed otherwise, but away from home without a purse? Nope. Not bloody likely.

Shaking my head slightly, I said, “Like I said, ma'am, I don't know you. Sorry.” With a last glance at her lovely face, I added, “And I really kind of mean that. Goodbye."

I opened my car door and got in, then started the car and zapped all the electric windows down halfway to let the heat out of the car until the air-conditioning could get up to speed. She tried the passenger door handle, but the door was locked.

Her hand reaching in to pull the door's lock knob up made me put the car in gear, but she didn't pull her arm out of the window. I started backing up. She still didn't pull her arm out. Instead, her arm seemed to turn into a colorful shadow of itself. The car's dashboard and windshield backed through her arm until her arm was on the outside of the windshield, apparently reaching through the hood of the car.

I stopped the car and stared in total disbelief as she grinningly moved her shadowy arm and hand back through the windshield and dashboard. When I looked at the woman beyond the shadowy arm, the rest of her also blurred slightly and she simply moved through the closed car door to take a seat in my car. As I sat wondering if I'd really seen what she'd done, she said, “We may leave now."

Staring at her for a moment, I quietly asked, “How the
hell
did you do that?"

"That would be better discussed in private. Could we please leave this place now?"

"We aren't going anydamnwhere until I know who you are—and
what
you are—and why you want me to believe you owe me anything."

A Ford honked at us and I let my car drift back into the parking space. The Ford driver swore at us as he drove by, obviously pissed that we hadn't left the space.

Looking at the woman, I said, “So, what's your story, lady?"

"You wish to talk here, in your vehicle?"

"No, I don't
wish
it. I
demand
it. At first I thought you might have me confused with someone else. Then I thought you might be a hooker. Now I don't know what the hell to think."

"What is a hooker?"

Huh? Who speaks English and doesn't know what a hooker is? But her question sounded completely genuine.

"Jesus, lady, where are you from?"

She shook her head slightly and seemed absolutely serious as she said, “I'm not allowed to tell you that."

My hands rose in an ‘oh, of course not!’ gesture of frustration and slapped the steering wheel. The woman startled and her gaze turned to a rather stark glare.

"Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to scare you. In fact, it never even occurred to me that I
could
scare someone who can reach through a car hood. How the hell did you do that? No, wait. First tell me your name. I'm Ed."

"Ed,” she repeated carefully. “I'm ... Jaline."

"You don't sound too sure about that."

Less tentatively, she said, “That name will do. I am a Jinn."

"A Jinn. You mean a genie?"

With one eyebrow raised at me, she repeated, “A
Jinn
."

"Uh, huh. But you know what a genie is, right?"

"Yes. It's a mistranslation of Jinn."

Looking her over again, I said, “Well, by God, you
looked
magical enough to me even before you sat down through a closed car door.” Meeting her gaze, I said, “But I'm not a big believer in magic. I believe even less in wishing for things. So you're saying that you were in that bottle I found?"

Jaline nodded. “Yes. I've been in that bottle since 1917."

"So where'd you get that outfit? Why aren't you wearing something from way back then?"

"There was a newspaper in the trash container. I read it to find out where and when I'd materialized, then I reviewed the advertisements and created appropriate attire."

"Uh, huh. You'll understand if I find this hard to believe."

Sighing, she said, “It's ever so with mortals. On many occasions,
'How did you fit into that bottle?'
has been one of their first questions."