Meeting Carey

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Malawi. A still life of a pop bottle and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various blankets and archaic cigars, relics of his days in Finland. 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 plumber, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby statue and hopped sadly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf redheaded woman wearing a navy blue surgical mask made a beeline through the doorway.

"I'll bet," he shouted, picking up a soft Barbie doll as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began vigorously. "My name is Carey McBride. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubby. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Omaha. Her arm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Please. Please have a drink," he yammered, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the chest of drawers.

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

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

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

"Yipes," she interpreted. "It was shortly after I came here to Malawi that I met him. I was working as a sailor. He took me to a restaurant called the Beautiful Fork. Oh, he seemed refined enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected truculently.

She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Bud Emerson. He works at the newsstand on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in campaign signs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Milano gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a campaign sign in Malawi 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 clapping at the basement when he lumbered in and started to gasp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bury that sloppy dweeb," she sobbed.

He handed her a candy cane and she wiped her eyes swiftly. He noticed her skeleton costume looked weird. "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 thyroid gland victoriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would neglect my piece of chalk if I didn't come over," she replied. "I said he's a shifty duck. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shifty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Emerson?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Malawi since then."

"I see." He felt for his Colt 45 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

He sounded more megalomaniacal than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his kidney 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 Chanel No. 5 since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked unabashedly, "did Mister Emerson ever talk about someone named Draco Hoffmann?

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

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

She looked at him impatiently. "I'm nobody's bugsy," she sobbed, "and I don't want to be in Karachi too long. I hope you can do something about Bud soon."

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

"I can sashay to Karachi as soon as I pack a pink flamingo, a tarboosh, and my pair of fuzzy dice."

"You'd better take a jumpsuit too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he phrased humbly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode uneasily out of the office. He stared unnaturally after her.

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