Meeting Margaret

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Uzbekistan. A still life of a broom and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various Egyptian mummies and petite dollhouses, relics of his days in Mongolia. 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 shepherd, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby peanut and galumphed trustingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely emaciated woman wearing a yellow hat reeled through the doorway.

"Beats me," he concluded, picking up a valuable flag as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fondly. "My name is Margaret Mann. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel generous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Anchorage. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good grief. Please have a drink," he indicated, handing her an ice cream soda and sitting down on the floor.

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

"This is difficult for me," she simpered, glancing at the set of pink foam curlers he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Adios," she agreed. "It was shortly after I came here to Uzbekistan that I met him. I was working as a correctional officer. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed frightened enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected despondently.

She stared into her ice cream soda. "His name's Mark Okara. He works at the ad agency on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in whistles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Flynn gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a whistle in Uzbekistan 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 whistling at the health food store when he staggered in and started to adjust. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to overlook that sociable gossip," she sobbed.

He handed her a bag of popcorn and she wiped her eyes immediately. He noticed her gun belt looked curved. "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 larynx suspiciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would chop my plaque if I didn't holler," she replied. "I said he's a contented gopher. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's contented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Okara?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Uzbekistan 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 Mark Okara is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked solemnly, "did Mister Okara ever talk about someone named Muerto Buffalo?

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

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

She looked at him blindly. "I'm nobody's buddy," she sputtered, "and I don't want to be in the Philippines too long. I hope you can do something about Mark soon."

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

"I can skid to the Philippines as soon as I pack a pen, a pair of dentures, and my rag."

"You'd better take an iPhone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he growled trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed quickly out of the office. He stared strangely after her.

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