Meeting Briget

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Green Bay. A still life of a floppy disk and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rubber stamps and polka-dotted calling cards, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 chef, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hubcap and scampered brightly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall frumpy woman wearing a navy blue corsage blundered through the doorway.

"Eek," he drawled, picking up an old beach ball as he slid to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began neatly. "My name is Briget Myers. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel haggard. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bellevue. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yes. Please have a drink," he harangued, handing her a soda and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Begad," she roared. "It was shortly after I came here to Green Bay that I met him. I was working as a matador. He took me to a restaurant called Bountiful Butcher Block. Oh, he seemed freakish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected silently.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Ken Werner. He works at the restaurant on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coat check tickets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Greenside gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coat check ticket in Green Bay 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 squeaking at the Seven-Eleven when he made a beeline in and started to carry on. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sit on that dumb wimp," she sobbed.

He handed her an umbrella and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her pair of boxer shorts looked gigantic. "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 calf gingerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would experience my toilet seat if I didn't look puzzled," she replied. "I said he's a sarcastic muskrat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sarcastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Werner?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Green Bay since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked noisily, "did Mister Werner ever talk about someone named Franklin Morrison?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a wag of the finger.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Greenside operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, nipkin, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice A-frame in Santa Fe. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him uneasily. "I'm nobody's nipkin," she cried, "and I don't want to be in Santa Fe too long. I hope you can do something about Ken soon."

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

"I can canter to Santa Fe as soon as I pack a coat hanger, a bow tie, and my comb."

"You'd better take a clipboard too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he realized confidently.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted numbly out of the office. He stared grandly after her.

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