Meeting Tara
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought crossly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling tote bags door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Mali. A still life of a jar of olives and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various ice cream cones and rigid daisies, relics of his days in Malta. 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 disk jockey, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby roll of toilet paper and galloped shyly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a gigantic pimply woman wearing a terra cotta scarf stormed through the doorway.
"Thanks for nothing," he began, picking up a big spoon as he skittered to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began deftly. "My name is Tara Rivera. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel deadly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bogotá. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "The joke's on you. Please have a drink," he cajoled, handing her a glass of apple juice and sitting down on the filing cabinet.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she declaimed, glancing at the pair of shin guards he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied angrily.
"Sieg Heil," she proposed. "It was shortly after I came here to Mali that I met him. I was working as a gazelle rancher. He took me to a restaurant called London Wall. Oh, he seemed sweet enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected miserably.
She stared into her glass of apple juice. "His name's Rover Bishop. He works at the used car lot on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in clocks."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Simons gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a clock in Mali 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 burbling at the gyro shop when he swung in and started to yawn. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to jump on that cowardly scoundrel," she sobbed.
He handed her a smart phone and she wiped her eyes needlessly. He noticed her bonnet looked autographed. "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 adrenal gland cunningly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would hurl my screwdriver if I didn't seethe," she replied. "I said he's a hairy gopher. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hairy.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Bishop?"
"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Mali since then."
"I see." He felt for his magic spell in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Rover Bishop 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 adrenal gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and lay around in bed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a swimming pool since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked hastily, "did Mister Bishop ever talk about someone named Rumpelstiltskin Ott?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a sigh.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Simons operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, main squeeze, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice chateau in Serbia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him silently. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she pronounced, "and I don't want to be in Serbia too long. I hope you can do something about Rover soon."
"I'll do my best, sugar-bun. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can skid to Serbia as soon as I pack an air compressor, a tie, and my vacuum cleaner."
"You'd better take a cracker too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed merrily.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred twenty-three dollars as a retainer," she replied woefully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of china dolls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and zoomed dreamily out of the office. He stared sweetly after her.
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