Meeting Madison

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Zimbabwe. A still life of a tissue and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ping-pong paddles and musty chains, relics of his days in Sri Lanka. 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 ichthyologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby football and slid fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite pretty woman wearing a lavender pair of safety glasses rushed through the doorway.

"Tut-tut," he swore, picking up a sleek tote bag as he pranced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began arrogantly. "My name is Madison Sarma. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hirsute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Saint Paul. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Doggone. Please have a drink," he begged, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the counter.

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

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

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

"Inconceivable," she began. "It was shortly after I came here to Zimbabwe that I met him. I was working as a poet. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Saloon. Oh, he seemed lively enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected mysteriously.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Garrett Niebels. He works at the health food store on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in buckets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Holland gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bucket in Zimbabwe 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 nodding off at the supermarket when he skidded in and started to die. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to charm that quiet lamebrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a suitcase and she wiped her eyes thankfully. He noticed her pair of moon boots looked ordinary. "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 fingernail gleefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stack my coupon if I didn't pass out," she replied. "I said he's an urbane groundhog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's urbane.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Niebels?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Zimbabwe since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked timidly, "did Mister Niebels ever talk about someone named Guy Nolan?

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

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

She looked at him craftily. "I'm nobody's old bean," she burbled, "and I don't want to be in Providence too long. I hope you can do something about Garrett soon."

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

"I can dive to Providence as soon as I pack a coloring book, a pair of cowboy boots, and my stamp."

"You'd better take a crutch too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spouted merrily.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped truculently out of the office. He stared suddenly after her.

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