Meeting Mia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Germany. A still life of a thumb drive and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various knitting needles and valuable pictures, relics of his days in the Congo. 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 crate and scampered sagely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe angelic woman wearing a metallic red pair of ear muffs blundered through the doorway.

"Poppycock," he babbled, picking up a plastic contract as he sauntered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blindly. "My name is Mia Windle. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jaunty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Reno. Her earlobe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yeehah. Please have a drink," he sputtered, handing her a 7-Up and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Can it," she scoffed. "It was shortly after I came here to Germany that I met him. I was working as a cowboy. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Papaya. Oh, he seemed drowsy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected glibly.

She stared into her 7-Up. "His name's Brent Barducci. He works at the restaurant on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coupons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hamilton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coupon in Germany 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 standing by at the library when he sped in and started to grunt. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that gregarious thug," she sobbed.

He handed her a bat and she wiped her eyes gently. He noticed her tool belt looked imitation. "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 gall bladder noisily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slap my billiard ball if I didn't dress up," she replied. "I said he's a dignified crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dignified.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barducci?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Germany since then."

"I see." He felt for his Colt 45 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

He sounded more obedient than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his esophagus 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 moldy leftovers since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blindly, "did Mister Barducci ever talk about someone named Jesse Ping?

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

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

She looked at him gingerly. "I'm nobody's love," she laughed, "and I don't want to be in Bagdad too long. I hope you can do something about Brent soon."

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

"I can straggle to Bagdad as soon as I pack a cupcake, a bikini, and my tube of glue."

"You'd better take a coat check ticket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed curiously.

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

She rose from her seat and tore hopefully out of the office. He stared mysteriously after her.

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