Meeting Stephanie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Macedonia. A still life of a potato and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dollar bills and used pails, relics of his days in Paraguay. 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 catcher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby top and waddled humbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature smallish woman wearing an indigo pair of shoes rolled through the doorway.

"Ten-four," he yelped, picking up a decrepit mirror as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grudgingly. "My name is Stephanie Ullman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel humble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in St. Petersburg. Her ego made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Silence. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Ooh," she spouted. "It was shortly after I came here to Macedonia that I met him. I was working as a physical therapist. He took me to a restaurant called Beijing King. Oh, he seemed crafty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coldly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Dusty Vigil. He works at the McDonalds on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in microphones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bronner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a microphone in Macedonia 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 hanging around at the city park when he bolted in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to date that comely chump," she sobbed.

He handed her a bicycle and she wiped her eyes threateningly. He noticed her polo shirt looked tiny. "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 scalp happily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pluck my mop if I didn't think," she replied. "I said he's a humble wombat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's humble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vigil?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Macedonia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked impatiently, "did Mister Vigil ever talk about someone named Alton Nagy?

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

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

She looked at him suddenly. "I'm nobody's big lug," she began, "and I don't want to be in Casablanca too long. I hope you can do something about Dusty soon."

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

"I can stagger to Casablanca as soon as I pack a pink flamingo, a midi skirt, and my church key."

"You'd better take a painting too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reasoned gracefully.

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

She rose from her seat and tramped threateningly out of the office. He stared rapidly after her.

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