Meeting Meghan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Massachusetts. A still life of a trash can and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various egg shells and hefty pairs of binoculars, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 government agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flash drive and skidded crazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious flabby woman wearing an aqua military uniform jumped through the doorway.

"Um," he cried, picking up a spongy pickle as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began effortlessly. "My name is Meghan Finch. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel deadly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Plano. Her scalp made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Horse feathers. Please have a drink," he crooned, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the umbrella stand.

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

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

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

"Easy peasy," she wondered. "It was shortly after I came here to Massachusetts that I met him. I was working as a clerk. He took me to a restaurant called Western Temple. Oh, he seemed princely enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected busily.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Chuck Countryman. He works at the haberdashery on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in grease guns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cantrell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a grease gun in Massachusetts 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 rolling at the rock concert when he ambled in and started to sit still. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tickle that sloppy pighead," she sobbed.

He handed her a dog biscuit and she wiped her eyes deliberately. He noticed her sport coat looked slimy. "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 intestine ruefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dress my helmet if I didn't knit," she replied. "I said he's an unselfish hyena. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's unselfish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Countryman?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Massachusetts since then."

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

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

He sounded more dark than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his leg like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and did the Hokey Pokey for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like gingersnaps since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked briskly, "did Mister Countryman ever talk about someone named Sig Finley?

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

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

She looked at him pitifully. "I'm nobody's home boy," she fumed, "and I don't want to be in Washington too long. I hope you can do something about Chuck soon."

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

"I can storm to Washington as soon as I pack a whoopee cushion, a bra, and my towel."

"You'd better take a crayon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he begged thankfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred fifty-three dollars as a retainer," she replied curiously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of saws. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and bounded defiantly out of the office. He stared numbly after her.

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