Meeting Emma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Nepal. A still life of an iPod and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various blank checks and expensive charts, relics of his days in New Guinea. 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 dog walker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bone and ran recklessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy brown-eyed woman wearing a pea green lab coat scooted through the doorway.

"Thunderation," he joked, picking up a large iPod as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blankly. "My name is Emma Hopkins. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel thoughtful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Providence. Her bicep made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hush. Please have a drink," he joked, handing her a latte and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Zounds," she informed. "It was shortly after I came here to Nepal that I met him. I was working as a missionary. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Kitchen. Oh, he seemed artistic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected anxiously.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Parson Rossi. He works at the pastry shop on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toolboxes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Nussbaum gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toolbox in Nepal 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 getting angry at the miniature golf course when he slipped in and started to huff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wrestle with that menacing pigdog," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigarette and she wiped her eyes solemnly. He noticed her pair of trousers looked stolen. "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 knee sharply. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would monitor my cage if I didn't blush," she replied. "I said he's a moronic hermit crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moronic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rossi?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Nepal since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked oddly, "did Mister Rossi ever talk about someone named Vernon Banks?

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

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

She looked at him thoughtfully. "I'm nobody's mi amor," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in Yakima too long. I hope you can do something about Parson soon."

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

"I can slink to Yakima as soon as I pack a Bunsen burner, a pair of nylons, and my fire hose."

"You'd better take a baseball bat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he shuddered caustically.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched fiercely out of the office. He stared busily after her.

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