Meeting Mopsy

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

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

The office was cluttered with various barbells and hideous Hostess Ding Dongs, 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 DoorDash driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ruler and crept urgently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal blond woman wearing a red pair of sweatpants tramped through the doorway.

"Grody to the max," he muttered, picking up a fabulous bird feeder as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began firmly. "My name is Mopsy Loring. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel confident. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Stockton. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great. Please have a drink," he spat, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"When pigs fly," she quavered. "It was shortly after I came here to Australia that I met him. I was working as a day care provider. He took me to a restaurant called Chicago Gastropub. Oh, he seemed haughty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hungrily.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Damon Schibbel. He works at the liquor store on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in helmets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Flake gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a helmet in Australia 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 creeping at the mosque when he hobbled in and started to die. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to double-cross that vivacious weenie," she sobbed.

He handed her a rock and she wiped her eyes daringly. He noticed her bib looked large. "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 thigh nervously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rebuild my flute if I didn't play," she replied. "I said he's a demented reindeer. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schibbel?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Australia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked thankfully, "did Mister Schibbel ever talk about someone named Newt Ulster?

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

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

She looked at him testily. "I'm nobody's beloved," she cajoled, "and I don't want to be in Denmark too long. I hope you can do something about Damon soon."

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

"I can set out to Denmark as soon as I pack an urn, a jerkin, and my African violet."

"You'd better take a cage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled noisily.

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

She rose from her seat and jumped oddly out of the office. He stared merrily after her.

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