Meeting Merna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Chile. A still life of a hacksaw and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bowling balls and flaky rolls of duct tape, relics of his days in Malta. 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 advertising agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pack of gum and strode energetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied heavyset woman wearing a silver bomber jacket flew through the doorway.

"Son of a gun," he stammered, picking up an art deco doll as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began surreptitiously. "My name is Merna Lincoln. 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 Tampa. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dubious. Please have a drink," he observed, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the sofa.

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

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

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

"Aw," she imitated. "It was shortly after I came here to Chile that I met him. I was working as a novelist. He took me to a restaurant called New York Mess Hall. Oh, he seemed resolute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warmly.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Kyle van Veen. He works at the ad agency on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in batteries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ridley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a battery in Chile 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 shrugging at the Seven-Eleven when he jumped in and started to talk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to astonish that earnest peabrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a smart phone and she wiped her eyes courteously. He noticed her baseball cap looked ruined. "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 piehole menacingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would develop my sack if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's an earnest chipmunk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's earnest.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Van Veen?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked vigorously, "did Mister Van Veen ever talk about someone named Louis Ming?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's old bean," she orated, "and I don't want to be in Cape Town too long. I hope you can do something about Kyle soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Cape Town as soon as I pack a lollipop, a robe, and my hubcap."

"You'd better take a fishing pole too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he repeated hastily.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched reluctantly out of the office. He stared madly after her.

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