Meeting Susan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Mauritania. A still life of an iPhone and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fire hoses and striking iPads, relics of his days in Panama. 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 investment banker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby telephone and tramped surreptitiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine brown-eyed woman wearing a scarlet bib ambled through the doorway.

"Bowwow," he jeered, picking up a luxurious watering can as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began greedily. "My name is Susan Broghammer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel young. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Kawasaki. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yowsers. Please have a drink," he babbled, handing her an ice cream soda and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Pish posh," she lectured. "It was shortly after I came here to Mauritania that I met him. I was working as a winemaker. He took me to a restaurant called Egyptian Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed muscular enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her ice cream soda. "His name's Mark Backus. He works at the craft store on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in boomerangs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dubois gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a boomerang in Mauritania 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 jiggling at the miniature golf course when he walked in and started to frown. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bite that hirsute scurvy dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a mousetrap and she wiped her eyes pitifully. He noticed her kimono looked cheap. "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 belly intensely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would break my antenna if I didn't sweat," she replied. "I said he's an attractive owl. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's attractive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Backus?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Mauritania since then."

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

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

He sounded more brash than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thyroid gland 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 success since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blissfully, "did Mister Backus ever talk about someone named Brad Whiteside?

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

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

She looked at him timidly. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she realized, "and I don't want to be in France too long. I hope you can do something about Mark soon."

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

"I can galumph to France as soon as I pack an Egyptian mummy, an evening gown, and my toilet plunger."

"You'd better take an orange too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he guessed unnaturally.

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

She rose from her seat and straggled charmingly out of the office. He stared uselessly after her.

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