Meeting Huong

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Zimbabwe. A still life of a cigarette and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various toilet seats and damaged calculators, 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 dermatologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag and sped oddly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed plain woman wearing a terra cotta bow tie bounced through the doorway.

"Son of a Baptist preacher," he hissed, picking up a coarse jar of olives as he stormed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began pityingly. "My name is Huong Schmutzig. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel menacing. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Scottsdale. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gosh darn. Please have a drink," he recited, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Thunderation," she yawned. "It was shortly after I came here to Zimbabwe that I met him. I was working as a radio announcer. He took me to a restaurant called Presidential Pastry Shop. Oh, he seemed sassy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected majestically.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Boots Sales. He works at the pizza joint on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stopwatches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mohammadian gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stopwatch in Zimbabwe 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 daydreaming at the taco shop when he crept in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to oppose that nervous slacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a sea shell and she wiped her eyes majestically. He noticed her midi skirt looked tiny. "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 calf uselessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would certify my bag if I didn't sweat," she replied. "I said he's an artistic crocodile. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's artistic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sales?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Zimbabwe since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked glumly, "did Mister Sales ever talk about someone named Lorenzo Nye?

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

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

She looked at him sarcastically. "I'm nobody's Banana Cakes," she stormed, "and I don't want to be in Romania too long. I hope you can do something about Boots soon."

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

"I can jump to Romania as soon as I pack a cigar, a kilt, and my coat check ticket."

"You'd better take a pail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fumed despondently.

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

She rose from her seat and waddled sagely out of the office. He stared jokingly after her.

Next Chapter