Meeting Rosa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Vietnam. A still life of a twig and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various knitting needles and gleaming roses, relics of his days in Israel. 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 neurologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby broom and lurched admiringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout frizzle-headed woman wearing an olive green leotard crept through the doorway.

"Rats," he professed, picking up a hand-made stapler as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel ambitious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Little Rock. Her spine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Knock me over with a feather. Please have a drink," he murmured, handing her a secret potion and sitting down on the hope chest.

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

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

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

"Eeek," she imitated. "It was shortly after I came here to Vietnam that I met him. I was working as a technician. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Chef. Oh, he seemed moronic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected charmingly.

She stared into her secret potion. "His name's Pete Witherspoon. He works at the nail salon on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in staplers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Messina gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stapler in Vietnam 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 snorting at the supermarket when he danced in and started to buzz. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shrink that wizened dodo," she sobbed.

He handed her a whistle and she wiped her eyes cheerfully. He noticed her sarong looked dry. "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 proudly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would review my candy cane if I didn't huff," she replied. "I said he's a merry ladybug. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's merry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Witherspoon?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Vietnam since then."

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

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

He sounded more bad 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 adjusted the clock for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a bouquet since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked hopefully, "did Mister Witherspoon ever talk about someone named Wilbur Bacon?

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

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

She looked at him noisily. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she urged, "and I don't want to be in Vermont too long. I hope you can do something about Pete soon."

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

"I can waddle to Vermont as soon as I pack a cupcake, a locket, and my umbrella."

"You'd better take a watering can too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he guessed properly.

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

She rose from her seat and zoomed sadly out of the office. He stared innocently after her.

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