Meeting Melissa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in St. Paul. A still life of a coat check ticket and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various clipboards and chic church keys, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 funeral director, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bell and galloped temperamentally toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky chubby woman wearing a white belly button jewel stalked through the doorway.

"I'm sure," he pleaded, picking up a speckled grease gun as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quickly. "My name is Melissa Moreland. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel crafty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Green Bay. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "What in tarnation. Please have a drink," he reminded, handing her a Brandy Alexander and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Holy smokeroo," she orated. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Paul that I met him. I was working as a school principal. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Wok. Oh, he seemed monstrous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grandly.

She stared into her Brandy Alexander. "His name's Shane Wang. He works at the art gallery on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hip flasks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Powers gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hip flask in St. Paul 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 snarling at the closet when he capered in and started to pause. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to befuddle that wizened scurvy dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a tote bag and she wiped her eyes surreptitiously. He noticed her fedora looked excellent. "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 scalp needlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clean my iPad if I didn't collapse," she replied. "I said he's a jolly tarantula. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jolly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wang?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in St. Paul since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blankly, "did Mister Wang ever talk about someone named Shane McCray?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Powers 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 Spanish colonial in Namibia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him arrogantly. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she alleged, "and I don't want to be in Namibia too long. I hope you can do something about Shane soon."

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

"I can skid to Namibia as soon as I pack a basket, a coat of mail, and my cork."

"You'd better take a remote control too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed cautiously.

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

She rose from her seat and waddled suspiciously out of the office. He stared proudly after her.

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