Meeting Minnie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Bagdad. A still life of a can of shaving cream and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various napkins and hideous bats, relics of his days in Belize. 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 song writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cigarette and rolled shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly pale woman wearing an amber trench coat skittered through the doorway.

"Turn blue," he spouted, picking up an overgrown baton as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began primly. "My name is Minnie Truman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel garrulous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Caracas. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Amen. Please have a drink," he observed, handing her a cup of coffee and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

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

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

"Ahem," she smiled. "It was shortly after I came here to Bagdad that I met him. I was working as a grocer. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Social Club. Oh, he seemed disgusting enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected deliberately.

She stared into her cup of coffee. "His name's Emile Fretwell. He works at the opera house on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of groceries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the King gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of groceries in Bagdad 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 bawling at the church when he waded in and started to squeak. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to torment that radiant rascal," she sobbed.

He handed her a piano and she wiped her eyes dubiously. He noticed her pair of boxing gloves looked hard. "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 stomach viciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would package my playing card if I didn't adjust," she replied. "I said he's a portly kangaroo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's portly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fretwell?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked narrowly, "did Mister Fretwell ever talk about someone named Ace Lange?

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

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

She looked at him slyly. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she intimated, "and I don't want to be in Warsaw too long. I hope you can do something about Emile soon."

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

"I can parade to Warsaw as soon as I pack an ice cream cone, a gas mask, and my book."

"You'd better take a spool of thread too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smirked ruefully.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered slowly out of the office. He stared timidly after her.

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