Meeting Tonya

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Lesotho. A still life of a ping-pong paddle and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various fire hoses and hard flowerpots, relics of his days in Peru. 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 bar owner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cowbell and bounced menacingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty eye-catching woman wearing an aquamarine flak jacket crept through the doorway.

"Jiminy crickets," he blurted, picking up a hideous wastebasket as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began impatiently. "My name is Tonya Santos. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel serious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dubai. Her ear made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Kapow. Please have a drink," he inquired, handing her a Jack Daniel's and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Boom," she tittered. "It was shortly after I came here to Lesotho that I met him. I was working as a high school teacher. He took me to a restaurant called the Hungry Shoe. Oh, he seemed fuzzy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unabashedly.

She stared into her Jack Daniel's. "His name's Bix Barry. He works at the supermarket on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of beans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Marsh gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of beans in Lesotho 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 fretting at the swimming pool when he set out in and started to chew. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to yell at that mean reptile," she sobbed.

He handed her a stone and she wiped her eyes oddly. He noticed her pair of trousers looked damaged. "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 artery immediately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whirl my air compressor if I didn't groan," she replied. "I said he's an attractive worm. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's attractive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barry?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked arrogantly, "did Mister Barry ever talk about someone named Mao Tillerman?

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

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

She looked at him energetically. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she enunciated, "and I don't want to be in Tijuana too long. I hope you can do something about Bix soon."

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

"I can skid to Tijuana as soon as I pack a peace pipe, a moustache, and my tube of toothpaste."

"You'd better take a cookbook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he ranted noisily.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped uselessly out of the office. He stared curiously after her.

Next Chapter