Copyright © 2007 Herschel Cozine. All rights reserved. 

Alan walked along the deserted beach, ignoring the shrill cry of a seagull and the crash of the waves as they crept ever higher up the shore. He had bigger problems than seagulls or ocean waves. He had contracted to kill a man. And he couldn’t go through with it.

But contract killing was his profession. Granted, he was new at it. In fact this was to be his first assignment. Now, after years of readying himself for a lucrative living, he decided he wasn’t cut out for this line of work. He didn’t have the stomach for it. Even his name was wrong. Contract killers had names like Bruno. Or Stefan; something a little more exotic than Alan. He sounded like a deliveryman for Fred’s Pizza Shack.

But he had no choice. The Boss had given him a job to do and he would have to do it. Or else.

Alan shuddered at the last two words, conjuring up scenarios that made him cringe. The Boss had ways of dealing with those who didn’t follow orders. None of them were pretty.

He kicked at the sand as he walked, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the ground. Suddenly he saw an object half buried in the sand ahead of him, its shiny metal surface capturing the sun’s rays and reflecting them back into his eye. It was gold in color, bright in spite of being discarded on the beach. And it had an unusual shape.

Alan ran over to it, dug it from the sand and held it up. It was shaped like an old oil lamp, the kind one read about in Arabian Nights. A magic lamp if you will.

Alan took his handkerchief from his pocket and dusted the sand from the lamp, rubbing it gently to remove the accumulation of grit and grime.

As he rubbed the handkerchief over the spout of the lamp a puff of smoke streamed out of the opening, slowly at first, followed by a plume that rose straight up into the air. Alan watched in fascination as the cloud of smoke slowly took on a shape, at first amorphous, then materializing into the form of a man.

The finished shape stood over six feet tall, broad shouldered with a head slightly too large for the body. The face was—well—ugly. That was the only way to describe it.

Alan fell to his knees at the sight of the apparition, for indeed that was what it had to be. There were no such things as genies. They were stuff of fairy tales. He forced himself to look at the object. The "genie" stood in front of him, feet spread apart, arms folded. He reminded Alan a little of Mr. Clean, the household cleanser he had seen advertised on TV. Except Mr. Clean was far better looking. And this guy lacked the earring.

Alan instinctively recoiled at the sight of the genie. He put his hands over his eyes and sank back on his haunches.

"Well," a voice boomed out, "who did you expect? Barbara Eden?"

"You’re a....?" Alan started.

"That’s right. I’m a genie. My real name is sixteen letters long and even I can’t pronounce it. Call me Larry."

"But I thought..."

"Yeah, I know. You thought genies were cute and cuddly. Barbara is show business. I’m reality. All TV cares about are the ratings. And who’s gonna watch Jack Klugman in a peignoir?"

"Do you grant wishes?"

"Wrong again. Not wishes. Wish. Only one."

Alan started to protest, but the genie waved him off. "I don’t know how these rumors get started. First of all, nobody believes in us. Then when they find out we are for real they expect us to do all these things they read about." He expelled a huge sigh, crossed his arms and stared at Alan. "So, what will it be?"

Alan swallowed hard. "Well, I’m supposed to kill a man and I..."

"Stop right there," the genie said. "I’m a genie, not Murder Inc. I don’t do killing."

"I haven’t asked you to," Alan said.

"I can make you look like George Clooney. DiCaprio. Even Angelina Jolie." He made a face. "No. I couldn’t do that to her. Forget it."

"I don’t want to look like anyone else. I just want to get away."

The genie brightened. "Yeah! Good. There’s this nice little island off the coast of Fiji. Nobody’s lived there for years. The only other living thing on the island is a 250 year old turtle. He migrated from the Galapagos to get away from Darwin. The perfect spot for you."

"I’d get lonely. No, thanks."

The genie grunted. "Florida? Venezuela? How about Baghdad?"

Alan made a face. "I don’t think there’s a place for me. They’d find me no matter where I go. I’m going to have to go through with this." He moaned. "Oh, why did I agree?"

The genie eyed him sympathetically. "Who is this guy?"

"He’s an actor."

"An actor? Is he that bad?"

"Well, he’s not much of an actor, I know. He’s a Shakespearean actor. He put the ‘ham’ in ‘Hamlet’. But that’s not why they want him dead." Alan shook his head sadly. "He got on the wrong side of the mob. Tried to seduce the boss’s wife. He told her she reminded him of Ophelia."

"Now there’s a line that should melt the heart of any fair maiden," the genie said sarcastically. He put his hand to his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully. Then, brightening he turned to Alan.

"How about if I send him to the turtle island?"

"I don’t know," Alan said dubiously. "The Boss wants a body as proof the guy is dead. He’s a suspicious man."

There was a silence while the genie stroked his chin in deep thought. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he turned to Alan.

"Tell you what. I’m going to make an exception. I’ll take care of your problem for you."

Alan stood up straight, his eyes bright with excitement. "Really?"

"The world would be better off with one less ham in it." He straightened his turban and scowled down at Alan. "But I need something in return."

"What? I thought genies...."

"Look, kid. I’m doing you a favor. I’m granting you a wish that isn’t even in the books. That ain’t free, pal."

"OK," Alan said. "What do you want from me?"

The genie’s scowl softened into a thoughtful smile. "I always wanted to meet Queen Elizabeth."

Alan shrugged. "I can’t help you," he said. "I never met her. We travel in different social circles."

"Use your imagination, man. You can find a way to smuggle me into Buckingham Palace." He straightened his shoulders. "I’ll even grant you a second wish and get you to London. But you have to take me with you."

"Well," Alan muttered.

"The Boss wants a body."

"OK. OK. I’ll figure something out."

The genie held out his hand. "Deal."

Alan shook it with trepidation.

"Now. Who is this guy and where will I find him?"

"His name is Gilmore Grady. He’s currently in rehearsal at the Strand Theatre in Hoboken."

The genie made a face. "Are all the theatres in the U.S. named ‘Strand’? Never mind. I’ll take care of it." He gave a mock salute. "I’m outta here. Take the lamp home and I’ll see you in a few days."

***

Three days went by without a word from the genie. Alan began to worry. The Boss didn’t like to be kept waiting, and Alan was running out of excuses.

"Either Grady is dead by tomorrow or you are," he told Alan. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Alan croaked, backing out of the room.

He raced upstairs to his apartment and let himself in. Crossing to the fireplace, he took the lamp and rubbed it.

Larry appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You rang?"

"Grady has to die. Tonight. Understand?"

The genie waved a hand. "Yeah."

Alan glared at the genie. "Not good enough. If he isn’t dead by morning, I’ll be taking his place at the funeral parlor."

"Gotcha, boss," Larry said. "Not to worry. Everything’s going according to plan."

Before Alan could say anymore, the genie disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Alan slept fitfully. He was up at the crack of the dawn. Retrieving the newspaper from its spot on the floor in front of his door, he riffled through it eagerly. He found what he was looking for on page five.

Gilmore Grady, prominent Shakespearean actor, had met with a tragic accident while in rehearsal for Hamlet in New Jersey. He was killed when a statue fell on him in the middle of his soliloquy. The statue, a winged figure of some kind, used in Midsummer Night’s Dream, had fallen from a storage ledge above the stage. Killed by a falling fairy, Alan thought with some amusement. Not a very dignified way to die. Larry had a sense of humor, warped as it may be. Well, how he got rid of Gilmore was of no interest to Alan. The important thing was that Grady was dead and he was off the hook.

Alan put the paper aside, crossed over to the fireplace and took the lamp from the mantel. He rubbed it gently.

The genie appeared quickly, with a minimum of smoke and circumstance. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. "Yes, master," he said, his voice edged with sarcasm.

"Good job," Alan said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Grady Gilmore. He’s dead, you know."

The genie shrugged. "He is?" he said, then quickly added, "oh, yeah. He is."

Alan eyed the genie suspiciously. "I don’t understand." He waved the newspaper in Larry’s face. "You are responsible for this, aren’t you?"

The genie looked at the floor, his face red with embarrassment. Scratching his nose, he looked up at Alan. "I cannot tell a lie. It’s against the Genie Code of Ethics. I didn’t kill Gilmore." He frowned. "How did he die?"

Alan told him of the statue, embellishing it a little, as Larry listened intently. He shook his head in admiration. "Clever. I would have had him step in front of a bus." He smiled. "Nice touch. Sounds like something Junji would do."

"Who’s Junji?"

"A genie friend of mine. His real name is Junjikatariki. Last name Ammad. He’s always thinking outside of the box."

"Junji? I don’t understand."

Larry grunted and looked at the floor guiltily. "I couldn’t do it. I outsourced it to a fellow genie. He’ll do anything if the price is right."

"What price?" Alan asked.

"Junji always wanted to meet Oprah. You’ll see him on the show in a few weeks." He looked from the floor to Alan and back again.

"I guess the trip to London is off," he said. "I couldn’t accept it without having earned it. It wouldn’t be ethical."

"Yeah," Alan said. "Sorry."

"Rats! I was looking forward to it." His face crumpled into a mass of wrinkles. Then he brightened.

"How about another wish?" he said. "A new car? A girlfriend? There’s this hot little number in Memphis that’s...."

Alan shook his head. "No. I don’t want anything more to do with you. I’m grateful, but I’m going to quit while I’m ahead."

"Rome is beautiful this time of year. You could fly first class, too."

Alan pointed to the lamp. "Get in," he said.

"I can get you on ‘The Apprentice’."

"In," Alan repeated.

"How would you like to be a photographer for Sports Illustrated?"

"Get in the lamp!" Alan shouted.

The genie started to protest. Then, realizing that he was bound by the Genie Code of Conduct, he disappeared without a sound.

Alan put the lamp in a box, sealed it tightly with packing tape, and wrote an address on the label:

                            Her Majesty The Queen
                            Buckingham Palace
                            London, UK (ZIP unknown)

First thing tomorrow, Alan would take a trip to the post office. It was the least he could do.

Then he would apply for a job as pizza deliveryman at Fred’s Pizza Shack.

Contact the Author -   hcozine@yahoo.com