Meeting Bubbles

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in the Marshall Islands. A still life of a plaque and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various toys and slimy biscuits, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 percussionist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby microphone and slithered daringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive dashing woman wearing a hot pink pair of pajamas sidled through the doorway.

"For cryin' out loud," he crooned, picking up a fresh artificial flower as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began demurely. "My name is Bubbles Wapner. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel creepy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hannover. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gee whiz. Please have a drink," he hissed, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Crikey," she sobbed. "It was shortly after I came here to the Marshall Islands that I met him. I was working as a bank robber. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Castle. Oh, he seemed relaxed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cruelly.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Willard Hamilton. He works at the popcorn shop on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in calling cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rogers gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a calling card in the Marshall Islands 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 leering at the dance when he went in and started to shiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reassure that daring bum," she sobbed.

He handed her a bone and she wiped her eyes cunningly. He noticed her pair of earrings looked flexible. "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 pride queerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would understand my bag of popcorn if I didn't wobble," she replied. "I said he's a tactful aardvark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tactful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hamilton?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in the Marshall Islands since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quietly, "did Mister Hamilton ever talk about someone named Jimmy Daniels?

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

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

She looked at him defiantly. "I'm nobody's patootie," she panted, "and I don't want to be in Venezuela too long. I hope you can do something about Willard soon."

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

"I can sprint to Venezuela as soon as I pack a hair dryer, a pair of Oxfords, and my notepad."

"You'd better take a brochure too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he articulated oddly.

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

She rose from her seat and bolted tensely out of the office. He stared glumly after her.

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