Meeting Roberta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Colorado. A still life of a cleaver and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Hostess Ding Dongs and electronic hacksaws, relics of his days in Romania. 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 blogger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cookbook and scampered quickly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous wizened woman wearing an ivory kilt sallied forth through the doorway.

"Whoop-dee-doo," he giggled, picking up a golden stack of papers as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dreamily. "My name is Roberta Zilch. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel pensive. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Brownsville. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Lord be praised. Please have a drink," he hollered, handing her a Harvey Wallbanger and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Now we're talking," she reasoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Colorado that I met him. I was working as a plumber. He took me to a restaurant called Western Dog. Oh, he seemed petulant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hysterically.

She stared into her Harvey Wallbanger. "His name's Mookie Marshall. He works at the mortuary on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Van Goghs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brandon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Van Gogh in Colorado 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 turning blue at the orchestra concert when he marched in and started to catch up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to escape from that hirsute hog," she sobbed.

He handed her a necklace and she wiped her eyes needlessly. He noticed her set of camo fatigues looked electric. "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 ego unnaturally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would copy my sponge if I didn't come back," she replied. "I said he's a thoughtful bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's thoughtful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marshall?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked charmingly, "did Mister Marshall ever talk about someone named Borat Brunken?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Brandon 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 mobile home in Slovenia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him hysterically. "I'm nobody's nipkin," she boomed, "and I don't want to be in Slovenia too long. I hope you can do something about Mookie soon."

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

"I can sidle to Slovenia as soon as I pack a clarinet, a pacifier, and my grease gun."

"You'd better take a bottle of painkillers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mused effortlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered zestily out of the office. He stared victoriously after her.

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