Meeting Margaret
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 bird cages door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Uruguay. A still life of a pipe and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was cluttered with various packages and hollow batons, relics of his days in Austria. 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 minister, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pot and bounced fearlessly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a haggard fair woman wearing a salmon flour sack stalked through the doorway.
"By all the saints at the backside door of purgatory," he pointed out, picking up a hard Band-aid as he straggled to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began wryly. "My name is Margaret Backus. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel vile. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Calgary. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pow. Please have a drink," he announced, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the bathtub.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she rebutted, glancing at the thong he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied victoriously.
"Fun," she rationalized. "It was shortly after I came here to Uruguay that I met him. I was working as a typing teacher. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Stone. Oh, he seemed dowdy enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.
She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Butch Dowd. He works at the malt shop on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pianos."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grundy gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piano in Uruguay 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 looking dumb at the K-Mart when he crept in and started to stand by. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to glare at that slimy dweeb," she sobbed.
He handed her a rock and she wiped her eyes delicately. He noticed her T-shirt looked spongy. "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 bladder kindly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would see my egg shell if I didn't sniffle," she replied. "I said he's a stubborn butterfly. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stubborn.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Dowd?"
"Only a month; I've only been in Uruguay since then."
"I see." He felt for his air rifle in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Butch Dowd is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more timid than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his scalp like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and yawned for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fingernail polish remover since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked deftly, "did Mister Dowd ever talk about someone named JD Yang?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a clenched fist.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Grundy operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tootsie-pie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice motor home in Mongolia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him viciously. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she rationalized, "and I don't want to be in Mongolia too long. I hope you can do something about Butch soon."
"I'll do my best, pumpkin. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can rush to Mongolia as soon as I pack a hip flask, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and my antenna."
"You'd better take a bullet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he suggested demurely.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied dreamily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of whistles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and pranced sharply out of the office. He stared excitedly after her.
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