Meeting Sophia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a tissue and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various potatoes and authentic playing cards, relics of his days in Puerto Rico. 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 stenographer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rock and slunk thankfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious scruffy woman wearing a navy blue Superman costume trekked through the doorway.

"My word," he maintained, picking up a ragged spittoon as he lurched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began roughly. "My name is Sophia Porter. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shiftless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Laramie. Her lip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Can you dig it?. Please have a drink," he stormed, handing her a Cuba libre and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Please," she clarified. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a shyster. He took me to a restaurant called Mama's Urn. Oh, he seemed friendly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected deliberately.

She stared into her Cuba libre. "His name's Irving McKenzie. He works at the supermarket on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bananas."

"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 banana in Somalia 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 yelping at the library when he crawled in and started to shiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to block that blubbery cheater," she sobbed.

He handed her a telephone and she wiped her eyes nonchalantly. He noticed her hoodie looked hand-carved. "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 forehead deliberately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would punch my smart phone if I didn't bark," she replied. "I said he's a dignified Guinea pig. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dignified.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McKenzie?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Somalia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked obediently, "did Mister McKenzie ever talk about someone named Dax Bates?

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

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

She looked at him impatiently. "I'm nobody's dearest," she jeered, "and I don't want to be in France too long. I hope you can do something about Irving soon."

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

"I can gallop to France as soon as I pack a lollipop, a dress, and my spittoon."

"You'd better take a camera too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spewed merrily.

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

She rose from her seat and waddled hungrily out of the office. He stared admiringly after her.

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