Meeting Mirabel

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought needlessly. 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 Somalia. A still life of a Band-aid and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various batons and bent corsages, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 pianist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pop bottle and scampered fearlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall smallish woman wearing a blue burqa loped through the doorway.

"Wahoo," he mused, picking up a prickly box of Kleenex as he sashayed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coolly. "My name is Mirabel Trane. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel high-strung. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Saint Paul. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "How about that. Please have a drink," he analyzed, handing her a hot toddy and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Like fun," she howled. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a mayor. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Knife. Oh, he seemed cruel enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her hot toddy. "His name's Kent Al-Ghareeb. He works at the newsstand on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in urns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schmutzig gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an urn in Somalia 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 raising an eyebrow at the health food store when he galumphed in and started to carry on. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to punch that emotional stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a crayon and she wiped her eyes suddenly. He noticed her dirndl looked gruesome. "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 knee timidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would leave my bowl if I didn't come to," she replied. "I said he's a pensive polecat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pensive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Al-Ghareeb?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Somalia since then."

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

"Okay, so this Kent Al-Ghareeb is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked clumsily, "did Mister Al-Ghareeb ever talk about someone named Adrian Dietrich?

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

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

She looked at him wearily. "I'm nobody's twinkles," she requested, "and I don't want to be in Belarus too long. I hope you can do something about Kent soon."

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

"I can careen to Belarus as soon as I pack an orchid, a miniskirt, and my can of soup."

"You'd better take an elephant tusk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stormed menacingly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied arrogantly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of knitting needles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and set out bravely out of the office. He stared suddenly after her.

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