Meeting Mandy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Dallas. A still life of a suitcase and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cell phones and gaudy cameras, relics of his days in South Sudan. 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 librarian, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack of potatoes and climbed shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth gangling woman wearing a sea green tinfoil hat tramped through the doorway.

"Umm," he pronounced, picking up a huge paper clip as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began roughly. "My name is Mandy Cheng. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel lethargic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gilbert. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Far out. Please have a drink," he stammered, handing her a Mai Tai and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

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

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

"Whew," she shouted. "It was shortly after I came here to Dallas that I met him. I was working as a village idiot. He took me to a restaurant called Imperial Palace. Oh, he seemed sociable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vigorously.

She stared into her Mai Tai. "His name's Calvin Cantrell. He works at the McDonalds on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in snails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Deng gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a snail in Dallas 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 calculating at the Seven-Eleven when he skipped in and started to itch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to argue with that exuberant dope fiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a flowerpot and she wiped her eyes hysterically. He noticed her stovepipe hat looked stolen. "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 midriff nervously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would spin my Egyptian mummy if I didn't wink," she replied. "I said he's a corpulent spider. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's corpulent.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cantrell?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Dallas since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked mysteriously, "did Mister Cantrell ever talk about someone named Mahatma Deutsch?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Deng operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, dovey-poo, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice sand castle in Afghanistan. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him repeatedly. "I'm nobody's dovey-poo," she interpreted, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Calvin soon."

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

"I can tramp to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a battery, a fez, and my fishing pole."

"You'd better take a bugle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he croaked lightly.

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

She rose from her seat and went cleverly out of the office. He stared pityingly after her.

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