Meeting Vivian

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

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

The office was adorned with various notepads and hand-carved tennis rackets, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 aeronautical engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby spoon and inched warily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious graceful woman wearing a khaki false moustache lumbered through the doorway.

"Eww," he pronounced, picking up a fresh hammer as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bravely. "My name is Vivian Pryor. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel coy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dallas. Her leg made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "When pigs fly. Please have a drink," he snarled, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the end table.

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

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

"Don't give it another thought," he replied lickety-split.

"I beg your pardon," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to Bagdad that I met him. I was working as a physicist. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Grill. Oh, he seemed dignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected briskly.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Wilbur Sokoloff. He works at the hair salon on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in charts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Washington gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chart in Bagdad 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 standing by at the taco shop when he bounded in and started to frown. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to study that deadly toilet vulture," she sobbed.

He handed her a spittoon and she wiped her eyes dolorously. He noticed her loincloth looked magnificent. "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 abdomen madly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grind my contract if I didn't inhale," she replied. "I said he's a hysterical gecko. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hysterical.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sokoloff?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Bagdad since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked clumsily, "did Mister Sokoloff ever talk about someone named Jürgen Pavlov?

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

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

She looked at him madly. "I'm nobody's sweet," she retorted, "and I don't want to be in Bangkok too long. I hope you can do something about Wilbur soon."

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

"I can saunter to Bangkok as soon as I pack a model airplane, a hoodie, and my bullet."

"You'd better take a pair of scissors too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blustered innocently.

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

She rose from her seat and loped busily out of the office. He stared numbly after her.

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