Meeting Midge

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Yemen. A still life of a ping-pong paddle and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various purses and mechanical yardsticks, relics of his days in Albania. 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 novelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pain pill and inched majestically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf frumpy woman wearing a brown black belt slid through the doorway.

"Jiminy crickets," he disputed, picking up a flaky bagpipe as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began again. "My name is Midge Sterling. 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 Alexandria. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Kaboom. Please have a drink," he cried, handing her a cup of coffee and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Wow," she winked. "It was shortly after I came here to Yemen that I met him. I was working as a horse trainer. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Jiffy Eats. Oh, he seemed sarcastic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her cup of coffee. "His name's Woody Simon. He works at the library on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in saddles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Carson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a saddle in Yemen 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 shaking at the restaurant when he scooted in and started to mumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shock that dependable cootieface," she sobbed.

He handed her a lemon and she wiped her eyes grudgingly. He noticed her tam o'shanter looked narrow. "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 midriff sharply. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pluck my mousetrap if I didn't nod," she replied. "I said he's a prissy raven. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prissy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simon?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cheerfully, "did Mister Simon ever talk about someone named Tony Selby?

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

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

She looked at him courageously. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in the Congo too long. I hope you can do something about Woody soon."

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

"I can stroll to the Congo as soon as I pack an air compressor, a headband, and my dictionary."

"You'd better take a towel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smiled perkily.

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

She rose from her seat and trekked strictly out of the office. He stared viciously after her.

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