Meeting Rosa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a bicycle and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various toolboxes and puzzling rocks, relics of his days in Kosovo. 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 au pair, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby broom and jumped awkwardly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky eye-catching woman wearing a peach tuxedo zoomed through the doorway.

"Wild," he worried, picking up a rigid radio as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began merrily. "My name is Rosa McGrath. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sanguine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cambridge. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hee haw. Please have a drink," he exploded, handing her a cup of Sanka and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"Nuts," she blurted. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a referee. He took me to a restaurant called Double Empire. Oh, he seemed loving enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected threateningly.

She stared into her cup of Sanka. "His name's Mel Hoffa. He works at the pet shop on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in buckets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Miller gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bucket in Somalia 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 knitting at the church when he strolled in and started to doodle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to subdue that bold oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her a stapler and she wiped her eyes warily. He noticed her headscarf looked smelly. "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 knuckle noisily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fold my fish if I didn't yelp," she replied. "I said he's a confident mule. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hoffa?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Somalia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warmly, "did Mister Hoffa ever talk about someone named Wesley Zilch?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Miller operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, light of my life, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice housing project in Belarus. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him sharply. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she whimpered, "and I don't want to be in Belarus too long. I hope you can do something about Mel soon."

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

"I can lurch to Belarus as soon as I pack a tablet computer, a jogging suit, and my crayon."

"You'd better take a grease gun too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled steadily.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled dreamily out of the office. He stared gleefully after her.

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