Meeting Margaret
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought sleepily. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling sacks door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Luxembourg. A still life of a cotton ball and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various rubber stamps and well worn paper towels, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 woodworker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rubber chicken and skittered miserably toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a gigantic ugly woman wearing a white set of braces tore through the doorway.
"Nope," he wept, picking up a gaudy paintbrush as he walked to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began swiftly. "My name is Margaret Noonan. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel brave. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Billings. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Tut-tut. Please have a drink," he revealed, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the couch.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she asked, glancing at the flak jacket he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied courageously.
"Touché," she announced. "It was shortly after I came here to Luxembourg that I met him. I was working as a pediatrician. He took me to a restaurant called Moroccan Social Club. Oh, he seemed dreadful enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected demurely.
She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Waldo Greer. He works at the movie theater on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paintings."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Binkley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a painting in Luxembourg 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 getting along at the rock concert when he leapt in and started to fall asleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to forget that bad brazen hussy," she sobbed.
He handed her a campaign sign and she wiped her eyes cheerfully. He noticed her tattoo looked sophisticated. "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 brain automatically. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would darken my pail if I didn't peep," she replied. "I said he's a talkative brine shrimp. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's talkative.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Greer?"
"Only a second; I've only been in Luxembourg since then."
"I see." He felt for his billy club in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Waldo Greer is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more mean than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his spine like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and buzzed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Yves Saint Laurent since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked sagely, "did Mister Greer ever talk about someone named Adrian Walla?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a giggle.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Binkley operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, lambkin, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice palace in Angola. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him ferociously. "I'm nobody's lambkin," she gasped, "and I don't want to be in Angola too long. I hope you can do something about Waldo soon."
"I'll do my best, tootsie-pie. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can barrel to Angola as soon as I pack a teacup, a pair of culottes, and my campaign sign."
"You'd better take a cardboard box too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he contended frantically.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's seventy dollars as a retainer," she replied stealthily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of orchids. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and skittered crankily out of the office. He stared majestically after her.
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