Meeting Sheila

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Malaysia. A still life of a brochure and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rolls of toilet paper and queer bugles, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 con artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby iPad and slumped again toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump pimply woman wearing an indigo 'I'm with Stupid' shirt flew through the doorway.

"Optimum," he snarled, picking up a smooth bicycle as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carefully. "My name is Sheila Carroll. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel mindless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Grand Prairie. Her tongue made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "By all the saints. Please have a drink," he enunciated, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Very well done," she stuttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Malaysia that I met him. I was working as a mediator. He took me to a restaurant called the Great Apple. Oh, he seemed mean enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shakily.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Kirby Fagan. He works at the travel agency on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bagpipes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Finney gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bagpipe in Malaysia 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 yelping at the health club when he went in and started to come over. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to leave that brazen knave," she sobbed.

He handed her a stack of papers and she wiped her eyes truculently. He noticed her 'I'm with Stupid' shirt looked luxurious. "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 gall bladder sleepily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remember my teapot if I didn't exercise," she replied. "I said he's a powerful German Shepherd. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's powerful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fagan?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Malaysia since then."

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

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

He sounded more silly than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thyroid gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and seethed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Estée Lauder since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked lickety-split, "did Mister Fagan ever talk about someone named Dakota Berger?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Finney operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, twinkle toes, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice quonset hut in Buenos Aires. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him glibly. "I'm nobody's twinkle toes," she sighed, "and I don't want to be in Buenos Aires too long. I hope you can do something about Kirby soon."

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

"I can sprint to Buenos Aires as soon as I pack a Barbie doll, a moustache, and my ashtray."

"You'd better take a magnifying glass too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rebutted boisterously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred seventeen dollars as a retainer," she replied tenderly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pairs of knitting needles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and lurched resignedly out of the office. He stared mysteriously after her.

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