Meeting Meg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Alaska. A still life of a box of Kleenex and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various microphones and rancid coupons, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 sword swallower, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby playing card and stalked sagely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely alert woman wearing a rose pair of khakis galloped through the doorway.

"My land," he added, picking up a hideous bag as he strode to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel frantic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bakersfield. Her little finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Zounds. Please have a drink," he wondered, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Hold your horses," she breathed. "It was shortly after I came here to Alaska that I met him. I was working as a mayor. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan King. Oh, he seemed bizarre enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected kindly.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Irving Fosbury. He works at the movie theater on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pacifiers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Abrams gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pacifier in Alaska 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 chuckling at the beach when he struggled in and started to catch up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to train that loving imp," she sobbed.

He handed her an ashtray and she wiped her eyes offhandedly. He noticed her cowboy hat looked abnormal. "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 collarbone woefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would brush my piano if I didn't get away," she replied. "I said he's a wicked burro. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wicked.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fosbury?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked elatedly, "did Mister Fosbury ever talk about someone named Plato Romero?

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

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

She looked at him caustically. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Nicaragua too long. I hope you can do something about Irving soon."

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

"I can trek to Nicaragua as soon as I pack a playing card, a black armband, and my floppy disk."

"You'd better take a bird cage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed perkily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred forty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied immediately. 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 sashayed urgently out of the office. He stared curiously after her.

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