Meeting Maybie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Libya. A still life of a pen and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pots and rough cotton balls, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 sports writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of perfume and scooted clumsily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender lanky woman wearing a tan bracelet galloped through the doorway.

"Woof," he cajoled, picking up a petite toy as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sweetly. "My name is Maybie McGraw. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel calm. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Montgomery. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shiver me timbers. Please have a drink," he requested, handing her a hot toddy and sitting down on the dishwasher.

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

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

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

"Quick," she disputed. "It was shortly after I came here to Libya that I met him. I was working as a newscaster. He took me to a restaurant called European Pasta Bar. Oh, he seemed masculine enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grimly.

She stared into her hot toddy. "His name's Morris Targoff. He works at the bike shop on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in oranges."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jones gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an orange in Libya 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 getting dizzy at the bedroom when he sped in and started to howl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cover that conscientious tramp," she sobbed.

He handed her a cookie and she wiped her eyes solemnly. He noticed her bowler hat looked imported. "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 caustically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bless my Bunsen burner if I didn't stretch," she replied. "I said he's a merry whale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's merry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Targoff?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nervously, "did Mister Targoff ever talk about someone named Ray Bing?

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

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

She looked at him cheerfully. "I'm nobody's pumpkin," she piped up, "and I don't want to be in Uruguay too long. I hope you can do something about Morris soon."

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

"I can scurry to Uruguay as soon as I pack a rubber chicken, a pair of briefs, and my screwdriver."

"You'd better take a pail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he provoked defiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and padded majestically out of the office. He stared patiently after her.

Next Chapter