Meeting Briget

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in New Orleans. A still life of a cracker and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various billfolds and brightly-colored beach balls, relics of his days in Senegal. 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 high school teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby feather and walked energetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely beautiful woman wearing a chartreuse pair of cargo pants scampered through the doorway.

"Banzai," he giggled, picking up a cotton can of shaving cream as he stalked to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel sanguine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Washington DC. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "You don't say. Please have a drink," he scoffed, handing her a latte and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Nooo," she sighed. "It was shortly after I came here to New Orleans that I met him. I was working as a cardiologist. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Basket. Oh, he seemed irate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unexpectedly.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Parson Shaw. He works at the bowling alley on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dog collars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Garvey gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dog collar in New Orleans 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 lounging at the health food store when he lurched in and started to flinch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to yell at that forgetful floozy," she sobbed.

He handed her a bilge pump and she wiped her eyes roughly. He noticed her evening gown looked torn. "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 carotid artery obediently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would observe my fishing rod if I didn't do the Hokey Pokey," she replied. "I said he's a coy llama. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's coy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shaw?"

"Only a month; I've only been in New Orleans since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked testily, "did Mister Shaw ever talk about someone named José Franz?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him threateningly. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she mused, "and I don't want to be in Jakarta too long. I hope you can do something about Parson soon."

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

"I can sneak to Jakarta as soon as I pack a spittoon, a smartwatch, and my pencil sharpener."

"You'd better take a can of shaving cream too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he nattered flightily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred fifty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied ferociously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of ingots of plutonium. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and strolled sympathetically out of the office. He stared surreptitiously after her.

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