Meeting Margaret

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Barcelona. A still life of a floppy disk and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bullets and filthy horseshoes, relics of his days in Peru. 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 spy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bucket and skittered resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly well-built woman wearing a hot pink bonnet swung through the doorway.

"Boom," he contended, picking up a striped bird feeder as he pranced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began elatedly. "My name is Margaret Targoff. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sarcastic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buenos Aires. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I don't think so. Please have a drink," he stammered, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"Nope," she shrieked. "It was shortly after I came here to Barcelona that I met him. I was working as a stagehand. He took me to a restaurant called Tokyo Steak & Suds. Oh, he seemed undignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected miserably.

She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Mario Papadapolous. He works at the antique store on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baskets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kollmorgen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a basket in Barcelona 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 wandering at the spelling bee when he breezed in and started to lie around in bed. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bite that disagreeable low-life," she sobbed.

He handed her a campaign sign and she wiped her eyes temperamentally. He noticed her wizard's hat looked striped. "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 diligently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pound my stick if I didn't pace," she replied. "I said he's a brassy donkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Papadapolous?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked charmingly, "did Mister Papadapolous ever talk about someone named Seth Escobar?

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

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

She looked at him diligently. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she giggled, "and I don't want to be in the Maldives too long. I hope you can do something about Mario soon."

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

"I can prance to the Maldives as soon as I pack a crayon, a hoodie, and my radio."

"You'd better take a pearl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he groaned wildly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode calmly out of the office. He stared confidently after her.

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