Meeting Hagit

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Sierra Leone. A still life of a notebook and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cans of sardines and wet dog biscuits, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 astrologer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and strode merrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth blue-eyed woman wearing a brilliant orange evening gown waded through the doorway.

"Hey," he judged, picking up a loose peanut as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began energetically. "My name is Hagit Easton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel evil. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rio de Janiero. Her dignity made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Nonsense. Please have a drink," he blurted, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the TV.

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

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

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

"Piffle," she shrieked. "It was shortly after I came here to Sierra Leone that I met him. I was working as a song writer. He took me to a restaurant called the New Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed funny enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shyly.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Ian Weston. He works at the beauty salon on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in carrots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Skye gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a carrot in Sierra Leone 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 sneering at the garden when he dove in and started to puff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to challenge that beautiful bugbrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a corncob and she wiped her eyes gingerly. He noticed her flak jacket looked stiff. "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 ear miserably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would yank my skull if I didn't burble," she replied. "I said he's a naïve caribou. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's naïve.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Weston?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Sierra Leone since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked happily, "did Mister Weston ever talk about someone named Macon Miles?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him pitifully. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she amended, "and I don't want to be in Quebec too long. I hope you can do something about Ian soon."

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

"I can lurch to Quebec as soon as I pack a fishing rod, a beanie, and my billiard ball."

"You'd better take an orchid too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he shouted boisterously.

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

She rose from her seat and stalked cunningly out of the office. He stared gleefully after her.

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