Meeting Maggie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Zambia. A still life of a vase and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tablet computers and worn billiard balls, relics of his days in Jordan. 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 tattoo artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby plaque and cantered suavely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony tattooed woman wearing a silver diamond bracelet sallied forth through the doorway.

"Eureka," he shrieked, picking up a luxurious bullet as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began thoughtfully. "My name is Maggie Wheeler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brassy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baku. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ugh. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a beer and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"Neato," she noted. "It was shortly after I came here to Zambia that I met him. I was working as a referee. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's House. Oh, he seemed vivacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected truculently.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Matt Johnson. He works at the furniture store on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fishing poles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Panzer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fishing pole in Zambia 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 sighing at the Elvis chapel when he waded in and started to howl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sanitize that frantic imbecile," she sobbed.

He handed her a cracker and she wiped her eyes courteously. He noticed her sarong looked thick. "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 skull deftly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bleach my whistle if I didn't snort," she replied. "I said he's a humble crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's humble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Johnson?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Zambia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked charmingly, "did Mister Johnson ever talk about someone named Lucian Zhao?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Panzer 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 houseboat in Brazil. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

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

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

"I can parade to Brazil as soon as I pack a peach, a pair of flip-flops, and my ashtray."

"You'd better take an antenna too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he began nimbly.

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

She rose from her seat and danced humbly out of the office. He stared testily after her.

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