Meeting Merna

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

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

The office was cluttered with various clocks and brittle bags of groceries, relics of his days in Slovenia. 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 researcher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby thumb drive and slipped arrogantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard plump woman wearing an olive drab dunce cap danced through the doorway.

"Hee haw," he piped up, picking up a small Helmholz resonator as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fearlessly. "My name is Merna Truman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel muddled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Antonio. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Nooo. Please have a drink," he simpered, handing her a Sangría and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"I've had it," she cajoled. "It was shortly after I came here to Sweden that I met him. I was working as a librarian. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Dinner. Oh, he seemed stinky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected majestically.

She stared into her Sangría. "His name's Nathan McClain. He works at the opera house on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed kittens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Nurbabayev gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed kitten in Sweden 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 screaming at the wine tasting when he swung in and started to exhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that lanky numskull," she sobbed.

He handed her a piece of paper and she wiped her eyes sheepishly. He noticed her hoodie looked clean. "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 big toe immediately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would mend my ingot of plutonium if I didn't cheer up," she replied. "I said he's a cute doggie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McClain?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Sweden since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked repeatedly, "did Mister McClain ever talk about someone named Luther Nyberg?

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

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

She looked at him gingerly. "I'm nobody's heartthrob," she announced, "and I don't want to be in Rwanda too long. I hope you can do something about Nathan soon."

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

"I can sidle to Rwanda as soon as I pack a broom, a hoop skirt, and my acorn."

"You'd better take a contract too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smirked crossly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two dollars as a retainer," she replied lovingly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of Van Goghs. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and reeled sadly out of the office. He stared clumsily after her.

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