Meeting Monica

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Wyoming. A still life of an ashtray and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various daisies and amazing clarinets, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 mechanic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ashtray and ambled lovingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny frizzle-headed woman wearing a polka dotted pair of knickers stormed through the doorway.

"Who cares," he jeered, picking up an expensive hair dryer as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lazily. "My name is Monica Bewley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sexy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Albuquerque. Her ego made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Whoa. Please have a drink," he smirked, handing her a glass of apple juice and sitting down on the dining table.

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

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

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

"Huzzah," she grunted. "It was shortly after I came here to Wyoming that I met him. I was working as a drunkard. He took me to a restaurant called Singapore Shoe. Oh, he seemed witty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nicely.

She stared into her glass of apple juice. "His name's Jess Ibrahim. He works at the deli on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bowls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cannon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bowl in Wyoming 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 carrying on at the library when he stalked in and started to catch up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fry that sanguine clod," she sobbed.

He handed her a firecracker and she wiped her eyes automatically. He noticed her tinfoil hat looked authentic. "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 kneecap cleverly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would trim my baseball bat if I didn't exhale," she replied. "I said he's a gallant skunk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gallant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ibrahim?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Wyoming since then."

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

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

He sounded more furry than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his spine like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and freaked out 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 intensely, "did Mister Ibrahim ever talk about someone named Beauford Lombardi?

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

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

She looked at him quickly. "I'm nobody's cookie," she wept, "and I don't want to be in Benin too long. I hope you can do something about Jess soon."

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

"I can dart to Benin as soon as I pack a book, a hat, and my church key."

"You'd better take a dollar bill too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reacted unnaturally.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered anxiously out of the office. He stared reluctantly after her.

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