Meeting Meg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Madagascar. A still life of a china doll and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various feathers and hand-painted magnifying glasses, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 nuclear physicist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cookie and sallied forth hysterically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky heavyset woman wearing an aqua birthday suit careened through the doorway.

"Excellent," he voiced, picking up an ornate watering can as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began happily. "My name is Meg Kennedy. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dowdy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Ho Chi Minh City. Her tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy minerva. Please have a drink," he yelped, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"Hah," she uttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Madagascar that I met him. I was working as a clockmaker. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Dragon. Oh, he seemed sober enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grandly.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Anatoly Judd. He works at the mortuary on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Happy Meals."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Steele gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Happy Meal in Madagascar 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 stepping aside at the tattoo parlor when he sneaked in and started to squint. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to escape from that shiftless lunatic," she sobbed.

He handed her a pop bottle and she wiped her eyes glumly. He noticed her babushka looked brightly-colored. "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 hairdo brightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enclose my rose if I didn't ponder," she replied. "I said he's a sanguine bison. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sanguine.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Judd?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Madagascar since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked busily, "did Mister Judd ever talk about someone named Ole Withers?

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

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

She looked at him jokingly. "I'm nobody's friend," she piped up, "and I don't want to be in Libya too long. I hope you can do something about Anatoly soon."

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

"I can hobble to Libya as soon as I pack a fire hose, an overcoat, and my rock."

"You'd better take a saddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed solemnly.

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

She rose from her seat and sailed primly out of the office. He stared frantically after her.

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