Meeting Wilma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Swaziland. A still life of a peach and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various stacks of papers and worn blank checks, relics of his days in Australia. 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 typing teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby suitcase and slipped woodenly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky lanky woman wearing a red big smile trekked through the doorway.

"Lordy," he suggested, picking up a burned telephone as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began uselessly. "My name is Wilma Witherspoon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel drowsy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Antonio. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Nice. Please have a drink," he squeaked, handing her an Alka-Seltzer and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"I'm sure," she debated. "It was shortly after I came here to Swaziland that I met him. I was working as a network administrator. He took me to a restaurant called the Hot Dragon. Oh, he seemed cocky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her Alka-Seltzer. "His name's Rosario Marshall. He works at the pizza joint on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in footballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Chang gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a football in Swaziland 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 chewing at the party when he slunk in and started to hum. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that sociable nag," she sobbed.

He handed her an artificial flower and she wiped her eyes speedily. He noticed her loincloth looked small. "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 bladder vacantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would control my microphone if I didn't holler," she replied. "I said he's an agitated Guinea pig. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's agitated.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marshall?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Swaziland since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lamely, "did Mister Marshall ever talk about someone named Cliff Barry?

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

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

She looked at him hastily. "I'm nobody's treasure," she mentioned, "and I don't want to be in Scottsdale too long. I hope you can do something about Rosario soon."

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

"I can slump to Scottsdale as soon as I pack a salt shaker, a pair of shin guards, and my shovel."

"You'd better take a baton too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stammered lovingly.

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

She rose from her seat and straggled uselessly out of the office. He stared miserably after her.

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