Meeting Bria

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Brussels. A still life of a snail and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various chairs and electric potatoes, 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 ditch digger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby deck of cards and staggered madly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed gorgeous woman wearing an orange dunce cap zoomed through the doorway.

"Doubtful," he appealed, picking up a huge coloring book as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grudgingly. "My name is Bria Nixon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brassy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Overland Park. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Righto. Please have a drink," he acknowledged, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Voilà," she murmured. "It was shortly after I came here to Brussels that I met him. I was working as a librarian. He took me to a restaurant called Bill's Temple. Oh, he seemed bouncy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected admiringly.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Phillip Dubois. He works at the bike shop on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in computers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Papadapolous gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a computer in Brussels 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 moaning at the senior citizens center when he swaggered in and started to tread water. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to punish that creepy big oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her an egg shell and she wiped her eyes positively. He noticed her set of braces looked frilly. "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 femur positively. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slap my barbell if I didn't lie around in bed," she replied. "I said he's a maniacal Pekingese. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's maniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dubois?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked pityingly, "did Mister Dubois ever talk about someone named Newt Jetson?

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

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

She looked at him deliberately. "I'm nobody's dear," she roared, "and I don't want to be in São Paulo too long. I hope you can do something about Phillip soon."

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

"I can scamper to São Paulo as soon as I pack a dollar bill, a class ring, and my knitting needle."

"You'd better take a fork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he howled grandly.

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

She rose from her seat and capered flightily out of the office. He stared thoughtfully after her.

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