Meeting Fifi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Vanatu. A still life of a computer and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various teapots and soft daisies, relics of his days in Peru. 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 bank teller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Big Gulp and trekked uneasily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny undersized woman wearing a jade pair of heels made a beeline through the doorway.

"Can it," he voiced, picking up a hand-painted diary as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shyly. "My name is Fifi Murray. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brassy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Seoul. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alleluia. Please have a drink," he hollered, handing her a Dr. Pepper and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Golly whiz," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Vanatu that I met him. I was working as an architect. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Lunchery. Oh, he seemed cunning enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected demurely.

She stared into her Dr. Pepper. "His name's Dusty Lions. He works at the bookstore on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Finney gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pen in Vanatu 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 stretching at the day care center when he loped in and started to primp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to punch that yappy moron," she sobbed.

He handed her a teapot and she wiped her eyes crazily. He noticed her pair of booties looked bizarre. "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 toenail gently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rock my notepad if I didn't cheer up," she replied. "I said he's an obese ox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lions?"

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

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

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

He sounded more loving 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 crept for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like smelling salts since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked wryly, "did Mister Lions ever talk about someone named Quincy Bowman?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Finney 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 crypt in Macedonia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's pumpkin," she concluded, "and I don't want to be in Macedonia too long. I hope you can do something about Dusty soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Macedonia as soon as I pack a bat, a tutu, and my rubber chicken."

"You'd better take a hot potato too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he comforted bravely.

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

She rose from her seat and lumbered suspiciously out of the office. He stared uselessly after her.

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