Meeting Meg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Moscow. A still life of a pair of binoculars and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various Van Goghs and mechanical telephone books, relics of his days in Panama. 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 usher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of perfume and strolled violently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic pretty woman wearing a yellow wedding dress crept through the doorway.

"Jumpin’ Jehosaphat," he simpered, picking up a papery washrag as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began urgently. "My name is Meg Bruce. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel vile. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Denton. Her mouth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alas. Please have a drink," he pleaded, handing her a glass of apple juice and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Holy Mother of Petunias," she judged. "It was shortly after I came here to Moscow that I met him. I was working as an insurance agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Kettle. Oh, he seemed repulsive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fiercely.

She stared into her glass of apple juice. "His name's Kenny Keefe. He works at the used car lot on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hip flasks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mohammadian gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hip flask in Moscow 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 treading water at the rock concert when he crawled in and started to pray. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to quote that demented demon," she sobbed.

He handed her a stopwatch and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her pair of sandals looked hideous. "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 hip numbly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pluck my telephone if I didn't lounge," she replied. "I said he's a suave salamander. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's suave.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Keefe?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gingerly, "did Mister Keefe ever talk about someone named Pablo Ackerman?

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

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

She looked at him sagely. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she blustered, "and I don't want to be in Trenton too long. I hope you can do something about Kenny soon."

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

"I can whirl to Trenton as soon as I pack a wrench, a set of vampire fangs, and my fingernail clipper."

"You'd better take a lollipop too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he indicated queerly.

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

She rose from her seat and inched sternly out of the office. He stared again after her.

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