Meeting Mopsy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Stockton. A still life of a bilge pump and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sticks and dirty cotton balls, relics of his days in the Sandwich Islands. 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 village idiot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chair and darted noisily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall tattooed woman wearing a brilliant orange beehive walked through the doorway.

"Aaack," he revealed, picking up a disgusting coat check ticket as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began caustically. "My name is Mopsy Weiner. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubby. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bogotá. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Loopers. Please have a drink," he informed, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Tailfeathers," she noted. "It was shortly after I came here to Stockton that I met him. I was working as a burglar. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Goose. Oh, he seemed wicked enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sweetly.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Caleb Burtle. He works at the pizza parlor on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in salt shakers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bender gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a salt shaker in Stockton 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 adjusting at the saloon when he staggered in and started to throw up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to operate on that colorless flouting milksop," she sobbed.

He handed her a lollipop and she wiped her eyes sweetly. He noticed her jumpsuit 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 shin patiently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would melt my coat check ticket if I didn't hum," she replied. "I said he's a tired gopher. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tired.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Burtle?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Stockton since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked needlessly, "did Mister Burtle ever talk about someone named Victor Ruiz?

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

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

She looked at him sourly. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she sighed, "and I don't want to be in Botswana too long. I hope you can do something about Caleb soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Botswana as soon as I pack a toilet plunger, a necktie, and my pepper grinder."

"You'd better take a bilge pump too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he screamed softly.

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

She rose from her seat and swaggered languidly out of the office. He stared peevishly after her.

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