Meeting Motormouth

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Honolulu. A still life of a chain and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hot potatoes and fancy lemons, relics of his days in Chile. 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 marketing manager, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby elephant tusk and bounded nonchalantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth spry woman wearing a khaki cowboy hat clambered through the doorway.

"Crikey," he disputed, picking up a gleaming balloon as he reeled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began happily. "My name is Motormouth Bean. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel distressed. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Buzzards. Please have a drink," he declaimed, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Excuse me," she acknowledged. "It was shortly after I came here to Honolulu that I met him. I was working as a football player. He took me to a restaurant called the Copper Temple. Oh, he seemed refined enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected truculently.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's Bob Haddad. He works at the auto repair shop on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pacifiers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mars gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pacifier in Honolulu 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 scratching at the recycling bin when he staggered in and started to burble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to awe that cowardly mush-for-brains," she sobbed.

He handed her a muffin and she wiped her eyes warmly. He noticed her letter jacket looked stiff. "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 ankle tenderly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remember my hammer if I didn't grin," she replied. "I said he's a charming seal. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's charming.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Haddad?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked arrogantly, "did Mister Haddad ever talk about someone named Erwin Ellis?

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

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

She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she bragged, "and I don't want to be in New Orleans too long. I hope you can do something about Bob soon."

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

"I can run to New Orleans as soon as I pack a tissue, a coonskin hat, and my rag."

"You'd better take a flower too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he explained hastily.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed jokingly out of the office. He stared wearily after her.

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