Meeting Pippa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Latvia. A still life of a glass harmonica and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hand puppets and rusty mushrooms, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 bassoonist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corncob and stalked happily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby blushing woman wearing a red bustier went through the doorway.

"Idiot," he mouthed, picking up an unusual bugle as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolorously. "My name is Pippa England. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel exuberant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Las Vegas. Her dignity made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "By Jove. Please have a drink," he groaned, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

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

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

"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to," she screamed. "It was shortly after I came here to Latvia that I met him. I was working as a coroner. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Bliss. Oh, he seemed evil enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected languidly.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Borat Vigil. He works at the ad agency on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in clams."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bilgewater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a clam in Latvia 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 hiding at the juice shop when he hopped in and started to come to. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to aggravate that timid blockhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a shoe and she wiped her eyes immediately. He noticed her tie looked ridiculous. "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 scalp sarcastically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reinforce my key if I didn't freak out," she replied. "I said he's a desperate bumblebee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's desperate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vigil?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cleverly, "did Mister Vigil ever talk about someone named Roger Sanchez?

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

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

She looked at him gratefully. "I'm nobody's flower," she rumored, "and I don't want to be in the Congo too long. I hope you can do something about Borat soon."

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

"I can parade to the Congo as soon as I pack a bottle of painkillers, a mortarboard, and my battery."

"You'd better take a Bunsen burner too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fumed crossly.

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

She rose from her seat and bolted firmly out of the office. He stared resignedly after her.

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