Meeting Mindy

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 staplers door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Morocco. A still life of a doll and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various soccer balls and original magazines, relics of his days in Sweden. 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 photographer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pacifier and stalked blankly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe short woman wearing a white toupee ran through the doorway.

"Bam," he explained, picking up a filthy woodworker's clamp as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sympathetically. "My name is Mindy Parsons. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel zany. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bismark. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Kaboom. Please have a drink," he griped, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"For heaven's sake," she imitated. "It was shortly after I came here to Morocco that I met him. I was working as an acrobat. He took me to a restaurant called Tokyo Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed agitated enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected greedily.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Thaddeus Gibson. He works at the furniture store on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in telephone books."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Greenside gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a telephone book in Morocco 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 humming at the movie theater when he rolled in and started to snarl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to astonish that disorganized bum," she sobbed.

He handed her a coat check ticket and she wiped her eyes crossly. He noticed her pair of Oxfords looked gigantic. "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 earlobe victoriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would package my Big Gulp if I didn't chant," she replied. "I said he's a miniscule hedgehog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's miniscule.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gibson?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Morocco since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked menacingly, "did Mister Gibson ever talk about someone named Dennis Stoker?

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

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

She looked at him unabashedly. "I'm nobody's cuddle-bear," she reasoned, "and I don't want to be in the Netherlands too long. I hope you can do something about Thaddeus soon."

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

"I can skitter to the Netherlands as soon as I pack a chair, a pair of heels, and my telephone."

"You'd better take a pair of headphones too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he griped glumly.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped uneasily out of the office. He stared later after her.

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