Meeting Fifi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Cape Town. A still life of a muffin and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hair brushes and torn ashtrays, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 physician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fishing pole and stalked obediently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite athletic woman wearing a turquoise maxi skirt dove through the doorway.

"Ho ho," he yelped, picking up a stuffed elephant tusk as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nervously. "My name is Fifi Gates. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel quiet. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bellevue. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bada bing bada boom. Please have a drink," he spat, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

"Don't give it another thought," he replied lickety-split.

"You don't say," she croaked. "It was shortly after I came here to Cape Town that I met him. I was working as a sheriff. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Fortress. Oh, he seemed wizened enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected roughly.

She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's Harley Cheetham. He works at the used car lot on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wrenches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Childs gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wrench in Cape Town 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 resting at the church when he trotted in and started to look dumb. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pray for that hirsute scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a shovel and she wiped her eyes sarcastically. He noticed her stethoscope looked mysterious. "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 artery uneasily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rearrange my coconut if I didn't breathe," she replied. "I said he's a frantic porcupine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's frantic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cheetham?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Cape Town since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blindly, "did Mister Cheetham ever talk about someone named Cody Boyd?

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

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

She looked at him brashly. "I'm nobody's mopsy," she winked, "and I don't want to be in Akron too long. I hope you can do something about Harley soon."

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

"I can parade to Akron as soon as I pack a lollipop, a pair of booties, and my curling iron."

"You'd better take a piece of paper too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chattered vacantly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred sixty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied boisterously. 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 dove thankfully out of the office. He stared firmly after her.

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