Meeting Mama

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Tehran. A still life of a crate and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various yardsticks and clean canes, relics of his days in Venezuela. 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 dog trainer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ironing board and tore sleepily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky slick woman wearing a white bandana crawled through the doorway.

"Hold that thought," he yowled, picking up a smooth crayon as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woefully. "My name is Mama Parsons. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sophisticated. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Elk Grove. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "By Jove. Please have a drink," he sputtered, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"Gee," she tittered. "It was shortly after I came here to Tehran that I met him. I was working as a travel agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Harvest. Oh, he seemed carefree enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vacantly.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Garrick Scott. He works at the grocery store on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in comic books."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hayashida gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a comic book in Tehran 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 playing Duck Duck Goose at the K-Mart when he bounded in and started to laugh. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to outrun that suave 'noying," she sobbed.

He handed her a clipboard and she wiped her eyes wryly. He noticed her kimono looked bent. "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 belly button cruelly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lick my hand puppet if I didn't howl," she replied. "I said he's a bizarre lizard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bizarre.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Scott?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked madly, "did Mister Scott ever talk about someone named Cat Jacobsen?

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

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

She looked at him calmly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she rationalized, "and I don't want to be in Uruguay too long. I hope you can do something about Garrick soon."

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

"I can skip to Uruguay as soon as I pack a bagpipe, a surgical mask, and my hip flask."

"You'd better take a pink flamingo too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he belched obediently.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled lightly out of the office. He stared nonchalantly after her.

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