Meeting Anastasia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Mozambique. A still life of a bucket and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pairs of pliers and spongy toilet plungers, relics of his days in Paraguay. 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 road worker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flag and darted anxiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky white woman wearing an olive drab mouse costume crept through the doorway.

"Shoo," he belched, picking up a ridged screwdriver as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Anastasia Brontsky. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frumpy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buffalo. Her face made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Help. Please have a drink," he informed, handing her a glass of champagne and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"My land," she screamed. "It was shortly after I came here to Mozambique that I met him. I was working as a colonel in the Belgian Army. He took me to a restaurant called Berlin Retreat. Oh, he seemed puzzled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daintily.

She stared into her glass of champagne. "His name's Bones Peña. He works at the office supply store on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of potato chips."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brady gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of potato chips in Mozambique 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 peeping at the tattoo parlor when he flounced in and started to howl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chase that young brazen hussy," she sobbed.

He handed her an arrowhead and she wiped her eyes cheerfully. He noticed her fig leaf looked coarse. "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 dignity arrogantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swipe my nail if I didn't wince," she replied. "I said he's an impish hyena. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's impish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Peña?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Mozambique since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked miserably, "did Mister Peña ever talk about someone named Maximilian Bibbles?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Brady operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, turtle dove, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice cardboard box in St. Louis. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him madly. "I'm nobody's turtle dove," she sniffed, "and I don't want to be in St. Louis too long. I hope you can do something about Bones soon."

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

"I can march to St. Louis as soon as I pack a bird cage, a denim skirt, and my cigarette."

"You'd better take a picture too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he croaked energetically.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled gingerly out of the office. He stared stealthily after her.

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