Meeting Teresa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Tijuana. A still life of a sponge and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ashtrays and excellent cigars, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 courier, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby beach ball and swaggered dolefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious gaunt woman wearing an aqua pith helmet jumped through the doorway.

"Great Jehosaphat," he laughed, picking up a smelly yardstick as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began surreptitiously. "My name is Teresa Barton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel peculiar. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Córdoba. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Durn. Please have a drink," he articulated, handing her a Mountain Dew and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Cowabunga," she winked. "It was shortly after I came here to Tijuana that I met him. I was working as a missionary. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Wok. Oh, he seemed repulsive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected narrowly.

She stared into her Mountain Dew. "His name's Richard Ford. He works at the sandwich shop on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in billiard balls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zing gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a billiard ball in Tijuana 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 bleeding at the swimming pool when he scurried in and started to chortle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to charm that charming ninnyhammer," she sobbed.

He handed her a dead kitty and she wiped her eyes anxiously. He noticed her pair of knickerbockers looked shiny. "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 piehole ruefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reinforce my rose if I didn't fall asleep," she replied. "I said he's a conceited brine shrimp. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's conceited.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ford?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked anxiously, "did Mister Ford ever talk about someone named Brad South?

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

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

She looked at him irritably. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she stammered, "and I don't want to be in Moldova too long. I hope you can do something about Richard soon."

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

"I can lumber to Moldova as soon as I pack a pair of Bermuda shorts, a birthday suit, and my cage."

"You'd better take a bowl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sniffed hysterically.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered effortlessly out of the office. He stared nimbly after her.

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