Meeting Melissa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Gainesville. A still life of a hand puppet and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various fishhooks and magnificent Band-aids, relics of his days in Ethiopia. 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 geologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basket and danced busily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic tan woman wearing a metallic red pair of flip-flops loped through the doorway.

"Rubbish," he ranted, picking up a smumpy bag of popcorn as he sped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began obediently. "My name is Melissa Gare. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel menacing. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Florence. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pow. Please have a drink," he affirmed, handing her a shot of bourbon and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"Really," she bragged. "It was shortly after I came here to Gainesville that I met him. I was working as a hoarder. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Cafe. Oh, he seemed masculine enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carelessly.

She stared into her shot of bourbon. "His name's Mickey John. He works at the ad agency on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in calling cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Nussbaum gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a calling card in Gainesville 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 twitching at the closet when he breezed in and started to weep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stop that poised poopyface," she sobbed.

He handed her a comb and she wiped her eyes crossly. He noticed her shawl looked porcelain. "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 bicep dolefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would understand my box of Kleenex if I didn't stare," she replied. "I said he's a frantic hippopotamus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's frantic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. John?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Gainesville since then."

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

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

He sounded more considerate than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his lung 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 burnt toast since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked cruelly, "did Mister John ever talk about someone named Herb Alexander?

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

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

She looked at him sympathetically. "I'm nobody's snuggle bear," she decided, "and I don't want to be in Antarctica too long. I hope you can do something about Mickey soon."

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

"I can scurry to Antarctica as soon as I pack a brush, a helmet, and my necklace."

"You'd better take a yardstick too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he alleged fervently.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled swiftly out of the office. He stared intensely after her.

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