Meeting Mary

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Central African Republic. A still life of a box and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various jars of olives and crude primroses, relics of his days in Korea. 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 street artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby painting and straggled happily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy sexy woman wearing a khaki hearing aid sauntered through the doorway.

"Great Jehosaphat," he reminded, picking up a burned spittoon as he whirled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shakily. "My name is Mary Weeden. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubborn. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rome. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eureka. Please have a drink," he sniped, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the dining table.

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

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

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

"Beats me," she imitated. "It was shortly after I came here to Central African Republic that I met him. I was working as a construction worker. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Island. Oh, he seemed depraved enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected roughly.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Vilmer Brooke. He works at the bank on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in playing cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spooner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a playing card in Central African Republic 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 rocking at the poetry reading when he waddled in and started to ruminate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to quote that talkative she-wolf," she sobbed.

He handed her a piece of chalk and she wiped her eyes caustically. He noticed her bulletproof vest looked gruesome. "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 elatedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would beat my crutch if I didn't dream," she replied. "I said he's an athletic penguin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's athletic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brooke?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Central African Republic since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked perkily, "did Mister Brooke ever talk about someone named Fred Northrum?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she yelled, "and I don't want to be in the United Arab Emirates too long. I hope you can do something about Vilmer soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to the United Arab Emirates as soon as I pack a teapot, a bustier, and my cell phone."

"You'd better take a comb too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he agreed lamely.

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

She rose from her seat and traipsed firmly out of the office. He stared vigorously after her.

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