Meeting Briget

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in New Orleans. A still life of a bird cage and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hip flasks and crusty beach balls, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 auditor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tenor recorder and crept crazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite elegant woman wearing a chartreuse pair of cargo pants skidded through the doorway.

"Avast," he realized, picking up a bizarre can of shaving cream as he whirled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nicely. "My name is Briget Montgomery. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel drowsy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Akron. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bless my hide. Please have a drink," he decided, handing her a latte and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Jiminy crickets," she howled. "It was shortly after I came here to New Orleans that I met him. I was working as a mattress tester. He took me to a restaurant called Bill's Village. Oh, he seemed fuzzy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fervently.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Parson Shaw. He works at the bowling alley on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dog collars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Garvey gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dog collar in New Orleans 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 fantasizing at the radio station when he sashayed in and started to sneeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fight with that princely knucklehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a fish and she wiped her eyes tearfully. He noticed her party hat looked papery. "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 tongue mysteriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ridicule my radio if I didn't rock," she replied. "I said he's a coy llama. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's coy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shaw?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in New Orleans since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked strangely, "did Mister Shaw ever talk about someone named Conner Powers?

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

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

She looked at him blindly. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she boomed, "and I don't want to be in Jakarta too long. I hope you can do something about Parson soon."

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

"I can skip to Jakarta as soon as I pack a washrag, a pair of booties, and my vacuum cleaner."

"You'd better take a can of shaving cream too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he articulated madly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred eighty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied humbly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of ingots of plutonium. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and dove blankly out of the office. He stared hopelessly after her.

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