Meeting Merna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Mongolia. A still life of a hot potato and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hats and unusual knitting needles, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 puppeteer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby package and hopped demurely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic lean woman wearing a lime-green set of braces jogged through the doorway.

"Retch," he cackled, picking up a delicate comic book as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began uselessly. "My name is Merna Crawford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frightened. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in London. Her intestine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Who says?. Please have a drink," he lamented, handing her a gin fizz and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"Blah," she intimated. "It was shortly after I came here to Mongolia that I met him. I was working as a scout. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Taqueria. Oh, he seemed obese enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected demurely.

She stared into her gin fizz. "His name's Nick Boyce. He works at the art museum on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hot potatoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ortmann gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hot potato in Mongolia 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 rocking at the tanning salon when he strolled in and started to quiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stun that careful pigdog," she sobbed.

He handed her a dollhouse and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her pair of jackboots looked art deco. "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 belly flightily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pack my cotton ball if I didn't gesticulate," she replied. "I said he's a hysterical hawk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hysterical.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Boyce?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grandly, "did Mister Boyce ever talk about someone named Milo Austin?

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

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

She looked at him charmingly. "I'm nobody's flower," she sniped, "and I don't want to be in Vietnam too long. I hope you can do something about Nick soon."

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

"I can skitter to Vietnam as soon as I pack a pair of knitting needles, a surgical mask, and my egg shell."

"You'd better take a bedsheet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried brashly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred forty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied crazily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of tubes of glue. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and jogged greedily out of the office. He stared cruelly after her.

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