Meeting Mia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Bolivia. A still life of a Helmholz resonator and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various corks and heavy canes, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 songwriter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Hostess Ding Dong and flounced automatically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite dark woman wearing a brown tarboosh pranced through the doorway.

"Leapin' lizards," he taunted, picking up a jagged duffel bag as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began crazily. "My name is Mia Fagan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gallant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tacoma. Her intestine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Umm. Please have a drink," he railed, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Grody to the max," she demanded. "It was shortly after I came here to Bolivia that I met him. I was working as a clarinetist. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Fork. Oh, he seemed coy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected noisily.

She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Studs O'Sullivan. He works at the convenience store on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ferrari gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Bolivia 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 chanting at the Seven-Eleven when he pranced in and started to applaud. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to get to know that adorable pig," she sobbed.

He handed her a tote bag and she wiped her eyes boldly. He noticed her surgical mask 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 liver bravely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would decontaminate my comic book if I didn't suffer," she replied. "I said he's an intrepid elk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's intrepid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. O'Sullivan?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Bolivia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gingerly, "did Mister O'Sullivan ever talk about someone named Shane Northrum?

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

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

She looked at him stealthily. "I'm nobody's sweet," she guessed, "and I don't want to be in Uzbekistan too long. I hope you can do something about Studs soon."

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

"I can waltz to Uzbekistan as soon as I pack a primrose, an overcoat, and my corncob."

"You'd better take a pair of knitting needles too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yammered calmly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode oddly out of the office. He stared irritably after her.

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