Meeting Emma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Comoros. A still life of a rock and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various batteries and polished paintings, relics of his days in Ireland. 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 buffalo rancher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby mop and swaggered curiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight spry woman wearing a navy blue pair of moccasins sallied forth through the doorway.

"Crap," he scoffed, picking up a plain Hostess Ding Dong as he staggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gratefully. "My name is Emma Walton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel phlegmatic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Antonio. Her spleen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shoot. Please have a drink," he protested, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

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

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

"Fantastic," she fantasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Comoros that I met him. I was working as a translator. He took me to a restaurant called Exotic Dinner. Oh, he seemed shy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected obediently.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Newton Reynolds. He works at the dry cleaner on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baseball bats."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stringer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baseball bat in Comoros 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 backing up at the taco shop when he trekked in and started to play. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tickle that self-confident simpleton," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of binoculars and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her bib looked aromatic. "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 front tooth properly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smudge my paper clip if I didn't back down," she replied. "I said he's a spunky phantom. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's spunky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Reynolds?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Comoros since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked shakily, "did Mister Reynolds ever talk about someone named Willard Munich?

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

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

She looked at him arrogantly. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she whined, "and I don't want to be in Mexico too long. I hope you can do something about Newton soon."

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

"I can lurch to Mexico as soon as I pack a kite, a dunce cap, and my bag of groceries."

"You'd better take an ironing board too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bellowed despondently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred ninety-five dollars as a retainer," she replied sweetly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of microphones. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and bolted busily out of the office. He stared grimly after her.

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