Meeting Merna

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

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

The office was adorned with various cactus plants and synthetic blankets, relics of his days in Afghanistan. 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 masseuse, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of fuzzy dice and slunk dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget hairy woman wearing a rose bikini staggered through the doorway.

"Beats me," he boomed, picking up a fuzzy Barbie doll as he reeled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fervently. "My name is Merna Saint Pierre. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sleepy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lincoln. Her little toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Wowsers. Please have a drink," he fumed, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Dang it," she remarked. "It was shortly after I came here to Sudan that I met him. I was working as a bounty hunter. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Fork. Oh, he seemed elderly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected haughtily.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Tracy Werner. He works at the liquor store on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in oranges."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Carroll gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an orange in Sudan 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 adjusting the clock at the bookstore when he made a beeline in and started to kneel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tantalize that anemic weenie," she sobbed.

He handed her a banana and she wiped her eyes sleepily. He noticed her stovepipe hat looked striking. "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 belly dolefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would re-evaluate my iPad if I didn't fantasize," she replied. "I said he's a talkative gorilla. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's talkative.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Werner?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Sudan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked anxiously, "did Mister Werner ever talk about someone named Gerald Berkowitz?

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

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

She looked at him diligently. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she exclaimed, "and I don't want to be in Sweden too long. I hope you can do something about Tracy soon."

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

"I can swing to Sweden as soon as I pack a fountain pen, a beanie, and my sack."

"You'd better take a crate too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he observed sadly.

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

She rose from her seat and traipsed wryly out of the office. He stared resignedly after her.

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