Page 65 - Three Adventures

The Nazarene Foreskin

floor. The door opened on a large and well-appointed sitting room. It
featured a wet bar and Mauve A. Schantz reclining on a couch.

. . . . .

“You.” Scoop croaked. Her hair was tied back under a scarf and
her body concealed within a caftan. She nevertheless slinked over to
the liquor cabinet.
“May I get you a drink, Mr. Reedle? Old Taylor, wasn’t it? Try this:
it’s Jack Daniels Single Barrel.”
“Who are you? Where is Manur? Have you any ice?”
He did not hear the door behind him open, but only a seriously
hearing-impaired person would have missed the booming voice of his
host.
“Welcome, Mr. Reedle. I am Aldershot Silk.”
Reedle turned and knew instantly what Manur had imperfectly
recalled: that devil’s face. Sir Aldershot Silk, pharmaceuticals kingpin,
driven out of England on the heels of the saraquin scandal. Fortune
and knighthood intact, he now oversaw the development of
biotechnology industries in a dozen third-world countries with less
stringent regulation. He made no effort to hide his saturnine features
behind beard or spectacles.
“Now, sir, let us talk. You are a man concerned with facts, and I
respect that. Please have a seat.”
Scoop took the glass from Mauve and perched cautiously on a
small overstuffed armchair. She remained at the bar, drink in hand,
regarding him intently. Ofidian took her spot on the couch, clearly
enjoying its residual warmth.
“I put it to you simply that you do not know the value of what I
seek. According to Christian scripture, Christ bodily ascended to
heaven soon after death. His bones are not to be found, nor does
anyone expend much effort looking for them. But something was left
behind: as a Jew, Jesus must have been circumcised in infancy. If, as
that same book informs us, his birth was attended by signs, portents
and Persian magi, then that discarded bit of tissue would not have
received the normal disposal. It would have been saved. Now, is that

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