Meeting Megan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Billings. A still life of an accordion and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flowerpots and primitive stacks of papers, relics of his days in Panama. 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 entomologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of popcorn and sauntered flightily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy chubby woman wearing a fuchsia false moustache reeled through the doorway.

"For heaven's sake," he lectured, picking up an imported lemon as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began angrily. "My name is Megan Truman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conscientious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pembroke. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shhh. Please have a drink," he provoked, handing her a glass of lemonade and sitting down on the TV.

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

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

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

"Absolutely," she vouched. "It was shortly after I came here to Billings that I met him. I was working as an X-ray technician. He took me to a restaurant called the Stone Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed conceited enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grudgingly.

She stared into her glass of lemonade. "His name's Quentin Walters. He works at the dry cleaner on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dollhouses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shoemaker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dollhouse in Billings 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 cringing at the mall when he set out in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to imitate that tired sloth," she sobbed.

He handed her an etching and she wiped her eyes lovingly. He noticed her thong looked peculiar. "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 appendix hopelessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wash my peace pipe if I didn't wait," she replied. "I said he's a sassy raven. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Walters?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Billings since then."

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

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

He sounded more pigeon-toed 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 stepped aside for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like anise since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked viciously, "did Mister Walters ever talk about someone named Ken Hanson?

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

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

She looked at him slyly. "I'm nobody's bunny," she blustered, "and I don't want to be in Mozambique too long. I hope you can do something about Quentin soon."

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

"I can proceed to Mozambique as soon as I pack a cigarette, a diaper, and my suitcase."

"You'd better take a book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yowled crossly.

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

She rose from her seat and darted needlessly out of the office. He stared joyously after her.

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