Meeting Minnie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in England. A still life of a bell and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various mousetraps and delicate cream puffs, relics of his days in Nicaragua. 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 communist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of binoculars and padded openly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature Asian woman wearing a sea green name tag waded through the doorway.

"Alack," he smiled, picking up an overgrown chart as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began roughly. "My name is Minnie Stine. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fearful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Amarillo. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My land. Please have a drink," he stuttered, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the dishwasher.

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

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

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

"OMG," she crooned. "It was shortly after I came here to England that I met him. I was working as a politician. He took me to a restaurant called the Jade Bell. Oh, he seemed sweet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected despondently.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Kevin Alden. He works at the pizza parlor on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in teapots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Nye gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a teapot in England 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 getting along at the dance when he darted in and started to exhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pin that powerful barbarian," she sobbed.

He handed her a hip flask and she wiped her eyes bitterly. He noticed her pair of false eyelashes looked disgusting. "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 pituitary gland softly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cook my stack of papers if I didn't nod off," she replied. "I said he's a happy brine shrimp. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's happy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Alden?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in England since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tenderly, "did Mister Alden ever talk about someone named Clyde Windle?

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

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

She looked at him happily. "I'm nobody's cuddle-bear," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in Botswana too long. I hope you can do something about Kevin soon."

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

"I can lumber to Botswana as soon as I pack a snail, a beach towel, and my bird cage."

"You'd better take a can of beer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he jeered glibly.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced miserably out of the office. He stared flightily after her.

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