Meeting Fanny

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in the United Arab Emirates. A still life of a Big Gulp and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various saws and imported cell phones, relics of his days in Sweden. 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 government agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby map and proceeded nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky delicate woman wearing an aqua pair of socks set out through the doorway.

"Shoot," he rumored, picking up a curved pair of knitting needles as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began rapidly. "My name is Fanny Hughes. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel homely. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chattanooga. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Zzzzz. Please have a drink," he decided, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"By Jove," she vouched. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Arab Emirates that I met him. I was working as a stunt performer. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed bellicose enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's Mel Rivera. He works at the deli on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tickets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mohammadian gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ticket in the United Arab Emirates 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 mumbling at the taco shop when he stormed in and started to roll. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe in that silly dirty dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a duffel bag and she wiped her eyes sharply. He noticed her headband looked sleek. "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 thumb hastily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would heat my coat hanger if I didn't adjust," she replied. "I said he's a timid horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's timid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rivera?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in the United Arab Emirates since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked demurely, "did Mister Rivera ever talk about someone named Kurt Hunt?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Mohammadian operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, apple of my eye, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice A-frame in Oslo. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him grudgingly. "I'm nobody's apple of my eye," she begged, "and I don't want to be in Oslo too long. I hope you can do something about Mel soon."

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

"I can barrel to Oslo as soon as I pack a pigeon, a bedsheet, and my pickle."

"You'd better take a Frisbee too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he clarified joyously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred ninety-three dollars as a retainer," she replied energetically. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pairs of dice. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and stalked coldly out of the office. He stared lightly after her.

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