Meeting Mirabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Anaheim. A still life of an ironing board and a weed hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various necklaces and sleek cans of sardines, 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 wine merchant, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby houseplant and blundered gleefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky sexy woman wearing a turquoise pair of overalls scooted through the doorway.

"Easy peasy," he sneered, picking up a curved dog biscuit as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Mirabel Oggendorf. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bellicose. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Salvador. Her pinky made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Amen. Please have a drink," he decided, handing her a bottle of rum and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"Umm," she spat. "It was shortly after I came here to Anaheim that I met him. I was working as a jockey. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Knife. Oh, he seemed blubbery enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected silently.

She stared into her bottle of rum. "His name's Zachary Bowe. He works at the novelty shop on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in church keys."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Armstrong gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a church key in Anaheim 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 knitting at the wine tasting when he galloped in and started to mumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fool that megalomaniacal blatherskite," she sobbed.

He handed her a coin and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her pair of cargo pants looked funny. "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 toupee curiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would refine my duffel bag if I didn't blank out," she replied. "I said he's an atrocious wallaby. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's atrocious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bowe?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Anaheim since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lazily, "did Mister Bowe ever talk about someone named Joseph MacIntire?

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

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's cookie," she squealed, "and I don't want to be in Romania too long. I hope you can do something about Zachary soon."

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

"I can march to Romania as soon as I pack an ashtray, a ponytail, and my pop bottle."

"You'd better take a bag of ice too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pointed out fervently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred seven dollars as a retainer," she replied sternly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cell phones. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and galloped thankfully out of the office. He stared lightly after her.

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