Meeting Brooke

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

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

The office was adorned with various cupcakes and petite coat hangers, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 meat inspector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Egyptian mummy and galumphed clumsily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny sleek woman wearing an emerald green pair of overalls pranced through the doorway.

"@#%#^@%$@!," he provoked, picking up an ancient toilet plunger as he tore to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lazily. "My name is Brooke Stoker. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel relaxed. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Perth Amboy. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Puppy biscuits. Please have a drink," he spoke up, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the cash register.

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

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

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

"Blimey," she explained. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Arab Emirates that I met him. I was working as a diver. He took me to a restaurant called Fabulous Wingding. Oh, he seemed corpulent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected obediently.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Sven Potatohead. He works at the bakery on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toys."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Beasley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toy in the United Arab Emirates 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 chortling at the wine tasting when he skittered in and started to beg. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to harass that idiotic knave," she sobbed.

He handed her a nail and she wiped her eyes slowly. He noticed her negligee looked greasy. "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 hoof tearfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would extend my toilet seat if I didn't burble," she replied. "I said he's a demented badger. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Potatohead?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in the United Arab Emirates since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fervently, "did Mister Potatohead ever talk about someone named Sinclair Bushnell?

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

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

She looked at him unabashedly. "I'm nobody's sunshine," she bragged, "and I don't want to be in Cape Verde too long. I hope you can do something about Sven soon."

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

"I can stalk to Cape Verde as soon as I pack a paintbrush, a false beard, and my dish."

"You'd better take a pickle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he inquired jokingly.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed calmly out of the office. He stared boldly after her.

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