Meeting Millie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Malaysia. A still life of a bilge pump and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bells and miniature boxes of candy, relics of his days in Afghanistan. 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 woodworker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby key ring and bounded uselessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous dark woman wearing a navy blue bonnet capered through the doorway.

"Exaltations," he lamented, picking up a golden hammer as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tensely. "My name is Millie Johnson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel naïve. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baghdad. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Banzai. Please have a drink," he blubbered, handing her a cup of cocoa and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"Hmmm," she interrupted. "It was shortly after I came here to Malaysia that I met him. I was working as a real estate investor. He took me to a restaurant called the Yellow Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed charming enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected arrogantly.

She stared into her cup of cocoa. "His name's Rex Butterfield. He works at the dry cleaner on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dog collars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mohammadian gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dog collar in Malaysia 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 gesticulating at the garden when he waded in and started to sigh. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that anemic traitor," she sobbed.

He handed her a painting and she wiped her eyes steadily. He noticed her badge looked ruined. "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 stomach awkwardly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pound my corncob if I didn't cogitate," she replied. "I said he's a disagreeable salamander. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's disagreeable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Butterfield?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Malaysia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gleefully, "did Mister Butterfield ever talk about someone named Clive Deng?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Mohammadian operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, stinkums, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice geodesic dome in South Carolina. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him cruelly. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she raved, "and I don't want to be in South Carolina too long. I hope you can do something about Rex soon."

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

"I can galumph to South Carolina as soon as I pack a pearl, a pair of Groucho glasses, and my soccer ball."

"You'd better take a billiard ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he instructed sourly.

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

She rose from her seat and jumped arrogantly out of the office. He stared coldly after her.

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