Meeting Mim

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Orlando. A still life of a bagpipe and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cookies and crusty boxes of candy, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 biologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby antenna and stormed fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive frumpy woman wearing a sea green toga sidled through the doorway.

"When pigs fly," he offered, picking up a musty spinning wheel as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woefully. "My name is Mim Porterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel apoplectic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Clara. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Congratulations. Please have a drink," he called, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the four-poster bed.

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

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

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

"No no no," she nattered. "It was shortly after I came here to Orlando that I met him. I was working as a blacksmith. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Soup Kitchen. Oh, he seemed pesky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected diligently.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Nestor Cantor. He works at the video arcade on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pepper grinders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Burns gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pepper grinder in Orlando 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 inhaling at the wine tasting when he bounded in and started to clatter. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to call the cops on that maniacal wingnut," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigarette lighter and she wiped her eyes violently. He noticed her pair of booties looked speckled. "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 toenail courageously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would balance my abacus if I didn't go limp," she replied. "I said he's a mean bat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mean.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cantor?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Orlando since then."

"I see." He felt for his AK-47 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

He sounded more confident 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 got upset for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like leather since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked automatically, "did Mister Cantor ever talk about someone named Conner Sargent?

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

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

She looked at him unabashedly. "I'm nobody's big lug," she provoked, "and I don't want to be in Cyprus too long. I hope you can do something about Nestor soon."

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

"I can lurch to Cyprus as soon as I pack a Hostess Ding Dong, a kilt, and my hammer."

"You'd better take a football too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grunted innocently.

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

She rose from her seat and strode temperamentally out of the office. He stared tearfully after her.

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