Meeting Mildred

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Namibia. A still life of a helmet and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various mops and ruined ironing boards, relics of his days in Spain. 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 electrical engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bicycle and waddled nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature scruffy woman wearing a sea green blazer zoomed through the doorway.

"Wowsers," he professed, picking up an ornate baton as he trotted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began suddenly. "My name is Mildred Hayes. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel absent-minded. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Managua. Her buttocks made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Retch. Please have a drink," he guessed, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"At last," she shrieked. "It was shortly after I came here to Namibia that I met him. I was working as a typist. He took me to a restaurant called Fabulous Pastry Shop. Oh, he seemed petulant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ferociously.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Alf Barton. He works at the bakery on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed kittens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McGregor gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed kitten in Namibia 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 coming back at the pool hall when he hobbled in and started to grunt. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spank that deadly peabrain," she sobbed.

He handed her an artificial flower and she wiped her eyes demurely. He noticed her poncho looked petite. "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 thorax jokingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grind my rose if I didn't blink," she replied. "I said he's a melancholic phantom. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's melancholic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barton?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lovingly, "did Mister Barton ever talk about someone named Hank Bronner?

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

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

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's doll," she chimed, "and I don't want to be in Mongolia too long. I hope you can do something about Alf soon."

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

"I can slink to Mongolia as soon as I pack a picture, a jumpsuit, and my fingernail clipper."

"You'd better take a napkin too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered shakily.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced diligently out of the office. He stared daintily after her.

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