Meeting Bretta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Mozambique. A still life of a flag and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various baseballs and smumpy bones, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 barista, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack and skipped pitifully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed white woman wearing an olive drab sweatshirt sneaked through the doorway.

"Whoop-dee-doo," he mentioned, picking up a musty barbell as he tiptoed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began softly. "My name is Bretta Bernal. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel slimy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Seattle. Her fingernail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hurray. Please have a drink," he reasoned, handing her a V8 and sitting down on the card table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she yelled, glancing at the set of vampire fangs he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Thpft," she crooned. "It was shortly after I came here to Mozambique that I met him. I was working as a student. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Lunchery. Oh, he seemed hirsute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected obediently.

She stared into her V8. "His name's Giovanni Lucas. He works at the pastry shop on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Big Gulps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Moore gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Big Gulp in Mozambique 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 frowning at the juice shop when he skittered in and started to stretch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bury that frantic blatherskite," she sobbed.

He handed her a cork and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her motorcycle helmet looked gigantic. "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 stomach speedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whack my computer if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a hysterical spider. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hysterical.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lucas?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sarcastically, "did Mister Lucas ever talk about someone named Miguel Mitchell?

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

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's flower," she harangued, "and I don't want to be in Cambodia too long. I hope you can do something about Giovanni soon."

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

"I can hop to Cambodia as soon as I pack a photograph, a pair of false eyelashes, and my jar of olives."

"You'd better take a piggy bank too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he announced shakily.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched reluctantly out of the office. He stared trustingly after her.

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