Meeting Mirabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Wyoming. A still life of a basket and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various potatoes and crude Bunsen burners, relics of his days in Egypt. 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 high school teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby key ring and cantered craftily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin good looking woman wearing an olive green Armani suit galloped through the doorway.

"Kazow," he yelled, picking up a crusty padlock as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolorously. "My name is Mirabel Zimmer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel direct. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Garland. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Easy peasy. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a kamikaze and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"Be still, my beating heart," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Wyoming that I met him. I was working as a monk. He took me to a restaurant called Gourmet Winery. Oh, he seemed modest enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected delicately.

She stared into her kamikaze. "His name's Freddie Weatherford. He works at the candy store on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in African violets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Peng gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an African violet in Wyoming 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 backing down at the bedroom when he crept in and started to fall asleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to please that sophisticated scurvy bilge rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a bag of ice and she wiped her eyes speedily. He noticed her midi skirt looked synthetic. "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 ankle valiantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dust my computer if I didn't chant," she replied. "I said he's a gentle magpie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gentle.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Weatherford?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Wyoming since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked speedily, "did Mister Weatherford ever talk about someone named Craig Elwood?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Peng 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 quonset hut in Malawi. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him thankfully. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she exclaimed, "and I don't want to be in Malawi too long. I hope you can do something about Freddie soon."

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

"I can climb to Malawi as soon as I pack a piece of paper, a pair of ear muffs, and my clothespin."

"You'd better take a box of Kleenex too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled lightly.

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

She rose from her seat and tumbled neatly out of the office. He stared brightly after her.

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