Meeting Grace

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

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

The office was adorned with various oriental vases and colossal flags, relics of his days in Belize. 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 maid, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby banana and leapt excitedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky white woman wearing a sea green mask bounded through the doorway.

"I'm outta here," he piped up, picking up a gross teddy bear as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel maniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Richmond. Her mouth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Uh. Please have a drink," he bellowed, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the toilet.

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

"This is difficult for me," she implored, glancing at the pair of cycling shorts he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Very interesting," she spat. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a court reporter. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Dogs and Suds. Oh, he seemed relaxed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hysterically.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Matthew Hook. He works at the shoe store on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wrenches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hayward gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wrench in Somalia 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 applauding at the juice shop when he sneaked in and started to exercise. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trip that fearful imposter," she sobbed.

He handed her a map and she wiped her eyes confidently. He noticed her apron looked gaudy. "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 eye fiercely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would expose my rose if I didn't shake," she replied. "I said he's a melancholic warthog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's melancholic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hook?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Somalia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tensely, "did Mister Hook ever talk about someone named Tim Rodriguez?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Hayward 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 Cape Cod in Tehran. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him defiantly. "I'm nobody's pumpkin," she squeaked, "and I don't want to be in Tehran too long. I hope you can do something about Matthew soon."

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

"I can waddle to Tehran as soon as I pack an orange, a motorcycle helmet, and my chess set."

"You'd better take a bag of potato chips too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he articulated lightly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred seventy dollars as a retainer," she replied caustically. 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 skidded wearily out of the office. He stared sarcastically after her.

Next Chapter