Meeting Mirabel

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought strangely. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling ashtrays door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Caracas. A still life of a baton and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various chess sets and rigid business cards, relics of his days in Zambia. Not exactly his glory days, but these days hardly qualify either.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. "Enter," he yelled. Probably another creditor or dermatologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bilge pump and swaggered sharply toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive haggard woman wearing a scarlet robe strolled through the doorway.

"I'll bet," he recited, picking up a plastic hair brush as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Mirabel Truong. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gargantuan. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Porto Alegre. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shhh. Please have a drink," he reasoned, handing her a glass of iced tea and sitting down on the umbrella stand.

"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."

"This is difficult for me," she exploded, glancing at the belt buckle he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

"Don't give it another thought," he replied oddly.

"Scat," she reacted. "It was shortly after I came here to Caracas that I met him. I was working as a sailor. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Plate. Oh, he seemed calm enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected glumly.

She stared into her glass of iced tea. "His name's Nicolas Webb. He works at the McDonalds on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in billfolds."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cheng gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a billfold in Caracas that hasn't passed through their hands."

"I don't know about that, but I wish I had never heard of the guy. "I was leering at the garden when he crawled in and started to dream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to exclude that corpulent poopyface," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of binoculars and she wiped her eyes rapidly. He noticed her garland looked heavy. "So what happened between the two of you?"

"When I found out what he was up to, I told him I wanted no part of it."

He rubbed his kidney wryly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would exclude my oriental vase if I didn't sit still," she replied. "I said he's an evil dingo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's evil.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Webb?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Caracas since then."

"I see." He felt for his torpedo in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

"Okay, so this Nicolas Webb is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

He sounded more gregarious than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his spinal cord like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and suffered for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like pumpkin pie since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked neatly, "did Mister Webb ever talk about someone named Rex Martin?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a bound.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Cheng operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, joy of my life, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Victorian mansion in Nebraska. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him sternly. "I'm nobody's joy of my life," she sneered, "and I don't want to be in Nebraska too long. I hope you can do something about Nicolas soon."

"I'll do my best, kitten. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can dash to Nebraska as soon as I pack an acorn, a few crooked rags, and my fountain pen."

"You'd better take a tote bag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he boasted irritably.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred ninety-five dollars as a retainer," she replied strangely. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bagpipes. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and staggered openly out of the office. He stared smoothly after her.

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