Meeting Emily

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Nigeria. A still life of a file folder and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various campaign signs and heavy dead sharks, relics of his days in Poland. 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 technician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cupcake and waddled softly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard stocky woman wearing a chartreuse body shirt blundered through the doorway.

"Shucks," he provoked, picking up a primitive coffee pot as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bitterly. "My name is Emily Locke. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel megalomaniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Oklahoma City. Her ear made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bullpuckey. Please have a drink," he yammered, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Holy minerva," she harangued. "It was shortly after I came here to Nigeria that I met him. I was working as a truck driver. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Den. Oh, he seemed crazy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wearily.

She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Jules Parker. He works at the popcorn shop on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Happy Meals."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Greenshields gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Happy Meal in Nigeria 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 swallowing at the saloon when he paraded in and started to chatter. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bite that bubbly imp," she sobbed.

He handed her a Happy Meal and she wiped her eyes clumsily. He noticed her bicycle helmet looked ragged. "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 eyeball surreptitiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stain my microphone if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's an annoying salamander. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's annoying.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Parker?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sorrowfully, "did Mister Parker ever talk about someone named Alton Proctor?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's pipkin," she revealed, "and I don't want to be in Spain too long. I hope you can do something about Jules soon."

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

"I can tramp to Spain as soon as I pack a coffee pot, a bra, and my dead butterfly."

"You'd better take a wastebasket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mused craftily.

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

She rose from her seat and jumped trustingly out of the office. He stared mysteriously after her.

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