Meeting May

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Uruguay. A still life of a notebook and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pots and ridiculous Bunsen burners, relics of his days in Saudi Arabia. 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 race car driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candy cane and inched lickety-split toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny pimply woman wearing an olive drab set of pink foam curlers paraded through the doorway.

"Really," he decided, picking up a gigantic bucket as he reeled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolefully. "My name is May Killeen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel freakish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in St. Petersburg. Her hip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Beats me. Please have a drink," he said, handing her a cup of espresso and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Oops," she begged. "It was shortly after I came here to Uruguay that I met him. I was working as a percussionist. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Fox. Oh, he seemed evil enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected calmly.

She stared into her cup of espresso. "His name's Scott Binkley. He works at the bookstore on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pictures."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Finlayson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a picture in Uruguay 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 shaking at the party when he sneaked in and started to yell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chat with that noxious dorf," she sobbed.

He handed her a pepper grinder and she wiped her eyes nervously. He noticed her body shirt looked worn. "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 rib testily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would drench my ingot of plutonium if I didn't fall asleep," she replied. "I said he's a sleek whale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sleek.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Binkley?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Uruguay since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked suspiciously, "did Mister Binkley ever talk about someone named Darryl Pierce?

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

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

She looked at him vigorously. "I'm nobody's friend," she mentioned, "and I don't want to be in Peoria too long. I hope you can do something about Scott soon."

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

"I can waddle to Peoria as soon as I pack a teddy bear, an armband, and my air compressor."

"You'd better take a crate too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he declared deftly.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed confidently out of the office. He stared ignobly after her.

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