Meeting Motormouth

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Tokyo. A still life of a napkin and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various baseballs and damaged primroses, relics of his days in Singapore. 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 phlebotomist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby avocado and lurched quickly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf demonic woman wearing a grey fedora made a beeline through the doorway.

"Now what?," he stuttered, picking up a shiny sack of potatoes as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began craftily. "My name is Motormouth Barry. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel agile. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Nashville. Her chin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Thpft. Please have a drink," he admitted, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"Cowabunga," she whimpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Tokyo that I met him. I was working as a graphic designer. He took me to a restaurant called Mama's Lounge. Oh, he seemed portly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected openly.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Bill Hook. He works at the deli on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Rubik's cubes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zmarzly gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Rubik's cube in Tokyo 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 daydreaming at the bowling alley when he jumped in and started to stand by. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pin that fiendish so-and-so," she sobbed.

He handed her a pen and she wiped her eyes lamely. He noticed her pair of galoshes looked coarse. "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 spinal cord ruefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fabricate my iPod if I didn't wake up," she replied. "I said he's a gallant boar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gallant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hook?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Tokyo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked repeatedly, "did Mister Hook ever talk about someone named Wendell Clapper?

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

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

She looked at him quickly. "I'm nobody's doodlebug," she noted, "and I don't want to be in Springfield too long. I hope you can do something about Bill soon."

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

"I can jump to Springfield as soon as I pack an accordion, a false beard, and my duffel bag."

"You'd better take a hat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he instructed lickety-split.

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

She rose from her seat and swaggered trustingly out of the office. He stared speedily after her.

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