Meeting Theresa

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

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

The office was cluttered with various guns and greasy canes, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 tutor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cupcake and straggled daringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby sorrowful woman wearing a crimson trench coat flounced through the doorway.

"Eureka," he professed, picking up a puzzling pair of scissors as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began unexpectedly. "My name is Theresa Marx. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intrepid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fort Worth. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Granular. Please have a drink," he gabbed, handing her a Scotch and soda and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"Aye," she argued. "It was shortly after I came here to China that I met him. I was working as a web guru. He took me to a restaurant called Egyptian Sushi. Oh, he seemed gargantuan enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blankly.

She stared into her Scotch and soda. "His name's Octavius Ireland. He works at the butcher shop on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in corsages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wicker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a corsage in China 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 kneeling at the closet when he hopped in and started to swear. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to damage that zany hag," she sobbed.

He handed her an antenna and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her kilt looked sleek. "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 ego sadly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would study my fossil if I didn't kneel," she replied. "I said he's a sleepy musk-ox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sleepy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ireland?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked woodenly, "did Mister Ireland ever talk about someone named Casey Peralta?

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

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's bugsy," she screamed, "and I don't want to be in Kentucky too long. I hope you can do something about Octavius soon."

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

"I can hobble to Kentucky as soon as I pack a handkerchief, a visor, and my rag."

"You'd better take a chart too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cried openly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's sixty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied fondly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cans of shaving cream. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and crawled sorrowfully out of the office. He stared viciously after her.

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