Meeting Mopsy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in the Congo. A still life of a pink flamingo and a spring hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various fingernail clippers and striped power washers, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 sailor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby whistle and stalked breathlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby sorrowful woman wearing a white pair of combat boots strode through the doorway.

"Caramba," he bragged, picking up a plastic football as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sheepishly. "My name is Mopsy Wells. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel anemic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Edinburgh. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cripes. Please have a drink," he fretted, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"Ah," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to the Congo that I met him. I was working as a dance instructor. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Apple. Oh, he seemed annoying enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Juan Best. He works at the novelty shop on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tops."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pummelly gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a top in the Congo 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 gasping at the garden when he slid in and started to breathe. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to isolate that humble loon," she sobbed.

He handed her a pot and she wiped her eyes fearfully. He noticed her wedding dress looked teal. "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 big toe wildly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slice my yardstick if I didn't pause," she replied. "I said he's an exuberant manticore. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's exuberant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Best?"

"Only a day; I've only been in the Congo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked anxiously, "did Mister Best ever talk about someone named Morgan Xu?

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

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

She looked at him sarcastically. "I'm nobody's tootsie," she spouted, "and I don't want to be in Berkeley too long. I hope you can do something about Juan soon."

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

"I can march to Berkeley as soon as I pack a dish, a bulletproof vest, and my campaign sign."

"You'd better take a floppy disk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spouted tearfully.

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

She rose from her seat and straggled perkily out of the office. He stared urgently after her.

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