Meeting Rosa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in the Amazon. A still life of a magnifying glass and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various towels and art deco bananas, relics of his days in Sweden. 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 petroleum engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of potato chips and flounced boldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal athletic woman wearing a jade leotard bounded through the doorway.

"Harrumph," he warbled, picking up a damaged stuffed bunny as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began speedily. "My name is Rosa Piper. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel relaxed. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Columbia. Her tummy made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hee haw. Please have a drink," he exploded, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Alright," she said. "It was shortly after I came here to the Amazon that I met him. I was working as an X-ray technician. He took me to a restaurant called European Dragon. Oh, he seemed portly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courageously.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Christopher Watts. He works at the clothing store on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in footballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grigsby gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a football in the Amazon 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 adjusting at the recycling bin when he scooted in and started to hum. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to deceive that desperate dipstick," she sobbed.

He handed her a stack of papers and she wiped her eyes zestily. He noticed her dog collar looked fabulous. "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 pinky suspiciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whip my can of soup if I didn't blush," she replied. "I said he's a cunning panda. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cunning.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Watts?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in the Amazon since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked zestily, "did Mister Watts ever talk about someone named Vilmer Irons?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Grigsby operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, honey bunch, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice parsonage in Mauritania. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him nonchalantly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she avowed, "and I don't want to be in Mauritania too long. I hope you can do something about Christopher soon."

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

"I can sashay to Mauritania as soon as I pack a contract, a bicycle helmet, and my fire hose."

"You'd better take a backpack too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stammered gleefully.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled shakily out of the office. He stared languidly after her.

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