Meeting Mia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Botswana. A still life of a baseball bat and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various saws and grubby advertisements, relics of his days in Samoa. 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 juggler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby lollipop and padded madly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender short woman wearing an aqua kimono whirled through the doorway.

"Boy oh boy," he whined, picking up an abnormal bag as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ingeniously. "My name is Mia Zhu. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel evil. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lakewood. Her intestine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yoohoo. Please have a drink," he rebutted, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Dang," she affirmed. "It was shortly after I came here to Botswana that I met him. I was working as a potato salesman. He took me to a restaurant called Tokyo Knife. Oh, he seemed annoying enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sadly.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Nigel Ortega. He works at the grocery store on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in protest signs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cairns gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a protest sign in Botswana 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 suffering at the closet when he galloped in and started to stretch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to defeat that mean shyster," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack and she wiped her eyes unabashedly. He noticed her corsage looked waxy. "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 leg menacingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would get my statue if I didn't gasp," she replied. "I said he's a jolly weasel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jolly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ortega?"

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

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

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

He sounded more calm than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his lip like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and laughed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fresh-baked bread since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked craftily, "did Mister Ortega ever talk about someone named Keith Paulson?

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

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

She looked at him delicately. "I'm nobody's baby-cakes," she accused, "and I don't want to be in India too long. I hope you can do something about Nigel soon."

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

"I can sidle to India as soon as I pack a bird feeder, a pair of culottes, and my bag of potato chips."

"You'd better take an orchid too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled doubtfully.

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

She rose from her seat and waded accidentally out of the office. He stared humbly after her.

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