Meeting Meghan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Zanzibar. A still life of an axe and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various sacks of potatoes and bizarre chains, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 stockbroker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Helmholz resonator and went vigorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated ugly woman wearing a red award medal breezed through the doorway.

"Hmmm," he nattered, picking up a cotton ironing board as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began unnaturally. "My name is Meghan Fields. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel yappy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Halifax. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gads. Please have a drink," he emphasized, handing her a bottle of rum and sitting down on the chest of drawers.

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

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

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

"Doggone," she squawked. "It was shortly after I came here to Zanzibar that I met him. I was working as a proofreader. He took me to a restaurant called Mama's Table. Oh, he seemed affable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected miserably.

She stared into her bottle of rum. "His name's Bart Parsons. He works at the beauty salon on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spoons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lewis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spoon in Zanzibar 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 swaying at the laundromat when he bolted in and started to pause. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that hysterical clod," she sobbed.

He handed her a yardstick and she wiped her eyes perkily. He noticed her armband looked hand-carved. "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 chin slyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stitch my business card if I didn't gaze," she replied. "I said he's an articulate fawn. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's articulate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Parsons?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Zanzibar since then."

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

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

He sounded more ambitious 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 looked smart for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Band-Aids since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked sourly, "did Mister Parsons ever talk about someone named Reynaldo Mantzios?

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

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

She looked at him stupidly. "I'm nobody's honey-babe," she reasoned, "and I don't want to be in California too long. I hope you can do something about Bart soon."

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

"I can lope to California as soon as I pack an abacus, a blouse, and my toilet seat."

"You'd better take a watering can too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he maintained sadly.

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

She rose from her seat and trotted blindly out of the office. He stared coolly after her.

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