Meeting Fifi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Berlin. A still life of a cage and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bags of potato chips and brightly-colored horseshoes, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 entomologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby spider and ran innocently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small lanky woman wearing a magenta false moustache galumphed through the doorway.

"Holy mackerel," he added, picking up a luxurious carrot as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began angrily. "My name is Fifi Sokoloff. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tall. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Caracas. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Behold. Please have a drink," he blubbered, handing her a Harvey Wallbanger and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Yeeshka," she barked. "It was shortly after I came here to Berlin that I met him. I was working as a fruit picker. He took me to a restaurant called the Jade Mist. Oh, he seemed elderly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected mysteriously.

She stared into her Harvey Wallbanger. "His name's Vance Stephens. He works at the bank on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in feather dusters."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Singh gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a feather duster in Berlin 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 itching at the bowling alley when he scooted in and started to rock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to suspect that contented snitch," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of shaving cream and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her bracelet looked cardboard. "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 tail ingeniously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would seal my banana if I didn't adjust," she replied. "I said he's a distressed goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's distressed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stephens?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked testily, "did Mister Stephens ever talk about someone named Malcolm Garland?

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

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

She looked at him timidly. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she yelled, "and I don't want to be in Tehran too long. I hope you can do something about Vance soon."

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

"I can blunder to Tehran as soon as I pack an Egyptian mummy, a bonnet, and my comb."

"You'd better take a dog biscuit too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he giggled delicately.

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

She rose from her seat and skidded pityingly out of the office. He stared blankly after her.

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