Meeting Mim

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Ontario. A still life of a toilet seat and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various avocados and magnificent bowls, relics of his days in Easter Island. 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 poet, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby houseplant and bounced repeatedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby ruddy woman wearing an emerald green belt slumped through the doorway.

"Zowie," he panted, picking up a polka-dotted rope as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sharply. "My name is Mim Watson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel blubbery. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Diego. Her beard made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Anyhoo. Please have a drink," he chimed, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the counter.

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

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

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

"Zzzzz," she debated. "It was shortly after I came here to Ontario that I met him. I was working as a truck driver. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Taqueria. Oh, he seemed stylish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bravely.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Jay Irvin. He works at the butcher shop on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spinning wheels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tutu gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spinning wheel in Ontario 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 pondering at the disco when he sprinted in and started to daydream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe in that enthusiastic ruffian," she sobbed.

He handed her a coat check ticket and she wiped her eyes truculently. He noticed her mortarboard looked polka-dotted. "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 wig fondly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rotate my flowerpot if I didn't blank out," she replied. "I said he's an unselfish pelican. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's unselfish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Irvin?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Ontario 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 Jay Irvin is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked crossly, "did Mister Irvin ever talk about someone named Noah Duckley?

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

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

She looked at him cautiously. "I'm nobody's mopsy," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Antarctica too long. I hope you can do something about Jay soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Antarctica as soon as I pack a wrench, a flour sack, and my chain."

"You'd better take a bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he barked again.

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

She rose from her seat and leapt narrowly out of the office. He stared dubiously after her.

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