Meeting Peg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Swaziland. A still life of a yardstick and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dead roosters and decrepit hats, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 shepherd, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby china doll and tiptoed miserably toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget scruffy woman wearing a brilliant orange black belt skittered through the doorway.

"Tubular," he rationalized, picking up a hideous dish as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frantically. "My name is Peg Whitefoot. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disagreeable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rapid City. Her belly button made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bingo. Please have a drink," he guessed, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Holy frijole," she exploded. "It was shortly after I came here to Swaziland that I met him. I was working as an advice columnist. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Basket. Oh, he seemed cunning enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected immediately.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Morgan Ullman. He works at the bookstore on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in thumb drives."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Turner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a thumb drive in Swaziland 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 coughing at the orchestra concert when he climbed in and started to get rigid. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that vivacious knave," she sobbed.

He handed her a pickle and she wiped her eyes clumsily. He noticed her bodysuit looked cotton. "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 pancreas urgently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would expose my biscuit if I didn't play solitaire," she replied. "I said he's a tall rabbit. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tall.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ullman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fondly, "did Mister Ullman ever talk about someone named Fuzz Hayes?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Turner operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, dovey-poo, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice yurt in St. Petersburg. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him demurely. "I'm nobody's dovey-poo," she gabbed, "and I don't want to be in St. Petersburg too long. I hope you can do something about Morgan soon."

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

"I can saunter to St. Petersburg as soon as I pack a diary, a pair of earmuffs, and my can of soup."

"You'd better take a wastebasket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he phrased lazily.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped threateningly out of the office. He stared firmly after her.

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