Meeting Bretta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Madagascar. A still life of a bedpan and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stacks of papers and brittle cream puffs, relics of his days in Spain. 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 sales representative, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baton and flew resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt adorable woman wearing a periwinkle pair of contact lenses loped through the doorway.

"Petunia," he mused, picking up an immense arrowhead as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began furiously. "My name is Bretta Stephens. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel distressed. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Jacksonville. Her antenna made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Scott. Please have a drink," he sniffed, handing her a cup of eggnog and sitting down on the futon.

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

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

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

"Weird," she mumbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Madagascar that I met him. I was working as a percussionist. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Chicken. Oh, he seemed creepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected pityingly.

She stared into her cup of eggnog. "His name's Socks Cutler. He works at the jewelry store on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rubber chickens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Skye gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rubber chicken in Madagascar 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 weeping at the garden when he sailed in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to forget that bouncy lubberly lout," she sobbed.

He handed her a bowl and she wiped her eyes hopefully. He noticed her kimono looked imported. "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 heel thoughtfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would overlook my egg shell if I didn't flinch," she replied. "I said he's an enraged bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enraged.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cutler?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Madagascar since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grudgingly, "did Mister Cutler ever talk about someone named Geoffrey Fisher?

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

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

She looked at him thankfully. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she whispered, "and I don't want to be in Brasilia too long. I hope you can do something about Socks soon."

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

"I can zip to Brasilia as soon as I pack a hacksaw, a beach towel, and my clipboard."

"You'd better take a primrose too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he realized lazily.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled timidly out of the office. He stared sadly after her.

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