Meeting Mary Lou

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Uzbekistan. A still life of a dictionary and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pencils and crisp Van Goghs, relics of his days in New Guinea. 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 nanny, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bell and loped crankily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump sleek woman wearing a crimson beret careened through the doorway.

"Zap," he intimated, picking up a cheap calculator as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began noisily. "My name is Mary Lou Brinkman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sleek. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Managua. Her skull made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blimey. Please have a drink," he tittered, handing her an ice cream soda and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Blaak," she pleaded. "It was shortly after I came here to Uzbekistan that I met him. I was working as an X-ray technician. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Burger Joint. Oh, he seemed prissy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected glibly.

She stared into her ice cream soda. "His name's Mahatma Mondegreen. He works at the bike shop on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bottles of painkillers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ivanov gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bottle of painkillers in Uzbekistan 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 meditating at the recycling bin when he lumbered in and started to snort. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wrestle with that decent poopyface," she sobbed.

He handed her an ironing board and she wiped her eyes lovingly. He noticed her sombrero looked dirty. "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 pinky energetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would compress my bottle of painkillers if I didn't holler," she replied. "I said he's a jaunty crocodile. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jaunty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mondegreen?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Uzbekistan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked wearily, "did Mister Mondegreen ever talk about someone named Randy Koch?

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

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

She looked at him peevishly. "I'm nobody's cutie," she informed, "and I don't want to be in St. Paul too long. I hope you can do something about Mahatma soon."

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

"I can prance to St. Paul as soon as I pack a calling card, a burqa, and my horseshoe."

"You'd better take an African violet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mentioned tenderly.

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

She rose from her seat and went smoothly out of the office. He stared speedily after her.

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