The woman sitting in front of me was truly gorgeous, just as I thought she would be when we talked on the phone. She looked like an advertising agent for heaven! I simply couldn’t divert my eyes away from her face, and I was definitely making an impression of an American redneck who hadn’t seen a woman since the Big Drought in the nineteen-thirties. Eventually, I gave up pretending I was not impressed and stared at her openly.

“Would you like something to drink, Miss Bjornson?” I asked her, glancing at her business card on the desk.

My courtesy was a bit of a stretch, though. I didn’t have much in my liquor cabinet to offer. Fortunately, my client was a decent woman who refused to drink at noon, and her decision automatically prevented me from having another glass myself.

“Well,” I went on after a while, “now that you’re here, you can finally tell me what this is all about, right?”

My visitor said nothing and just reached into her purse. She had blue eyes, long blond hair, and pale skin with flushed cheeks. Her makeup was very delicate—almost invisible. Her lovely beige skirt and matching blouse were somehow not in tune with the terrible weather outside, and I presumed she had come in a car. The woman took a picture out of her purse and tried to give it to me, but she accidentally dropped it on the way. It flipped in the air and slipped toward the edge of my tiny desk before falling onto the floor.

Being a gentleman, I briskly bent over to take it for her, but she turned out to be quicker. We almost bumped our heads in the middle. I looked at her and promptly tried to draw back, but it was too late—I had already had a glance at the “secrets” hidden in her blouse.

Miss Bjornson had a pair of charming little breasts—so little that they couldn’t fill her bra entirely. Leaning in front of her, I was able to see their protruding pink nipples, the size of beer caps. I attempted not to look at them directly, but it was more of a declaration of goodwill than a real action. As a result, I assumed the curious pose of a squint-eyed, stiff-necked moron in the middle of a peep show. My client took the picture and sat up, holding it out to me. I grabbed it while pretending I had something in my eye and theatrically glanced at it.

It was a photo of a man, digitally printed on luxury photo paper. He seemed a pretty weird guy—a Latino thug or something. He was thick-set with brown skin, long curly hair, and various marks all over his face and neck—probably mementos from old battles—wearing sunglasses and a bright Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his chest. All his fingers, as well as his wrists and neck, were heavy with golden jewelry, making the man look like a well-loaded Spanish galleon returning from a successful marauding raid in the West Indies.

“Who’s this? The king of gypsies?” I asked, not particularly tactful because the dude could easily be her missing boyfriend or husband, which would offend her. I didn’t believe that was the case, though.

Miss Bjornson looked at me calmly with no sign of insult on her face. She didn’t smile either.

“His name’s Ernesto Chavez. He’s the boss of Greenspace, not the gypsies!”

“Greenspace? Like the environmental Greenspace?” I asked.

She nodded silently.

“And what do you want me to do to him, Miss Bjornson? Waste him?”

“God, no! Of course not!” The environmentalist suddenly held her hand to her mouth in disbelief. “I just need him snapped, for Christ’s sake!”

“You mean, like, kidnapped and beaten?” I grinned impishly, even though I knew perfectly well what she meant.

“You have a very brutal imagination, Mr. Mellrow,” my client said, completely calm this time. “I’m starting to think I’ve come to the wrong office. What I mean is that I want the man snapped with a standard photo camera without any lethal extensions on it. To put it differently, I want you to take a picture of the guy for me. Is it clear enough now?”

I grinned again.

“And why would you want this, Miss Bjornson?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Well, to me, it does! I’d usually need details if you want me to do a job for you. If not for the sake of doing it properly, at least so I know it’s legal.”

“It is legal.”

“Glad to hear that. Now, could you tell me why you need these pictures?”

The woman gave me a short, studying look. Maybe it was her first time asking for this kind of service, and she hadn’t expected the questions. After a few seconds, however, she ditched her hesitation.

“Greenspace is trying to broker a huge deal with the Chinese clan here in Greenland,” she said quietly. It’s a smuggling deal, and we’re talking big money. We want the deal to fail.”

“You want it? Who are you exactly?”

Again, she stared at me for a while. She clearly didn’t want to go any further, but after half a minute, she opened her mouth and continued, “I work for an organization named Green Guards. We’re a rival to Greenspace.”

“You mean a sister, maybe?” I tried to correct her because her statement didn’t make sense to me.

“No. I mean rivals! Greenspace crossed the line a long time ago, and we cannot be sisters anymore. What they’re up to would affect the wildlife of Africa on a huge scale, and we need to stop them. Hundreds of rhinoceroses will die if we don’t!”

I looked at her, surprised. She had almost made me think I had a client, but now that I had heard her problem, she seemed rather like a nutcase to me.

“You do know it all sounds a bit ridiculous, Miss Bjornson, do you?” I asked her deliberately rudely after the right amount of silence.

“I don’t care how it sounds to you, Mr. Mellrow, as long as you agree to do the job and do it right!” she snapped, seemingly offended, but I was sure she just acted. “You’ll be paid very well for your service, but if you’re not interested, I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time!”

The woman slowly started to get up but then stopped halfway and did nothing. Her picture was still in my hand, and I wasn’t particularly quick or eager to give it back. Eventually, she hesitantly sat down in the chair, tapping her fingers on the edge of my desk.

“Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t do the job,” I said evasively. “But I need to hear the entire story because I have to be careful. You must agree that not many people would sign up to poke their noses in Chinese mobsters’ business!”

“As I’ve said, you’ll be paid well for the poking. The decision is all yours!” Miss Bjornson replied coldly.

I slowly laid the picture on the desk and breathed deeply, still looking at her. I didn’t want to lose the money, but I also didn’t like her story. Something was wrong with it, and she definitely kept many details back. I had learned in my career that it was never a good idea to do business with people who hide information from you, and I was careful.

“Well, tell me then how well your ‘well’ is,” I asked despite my suspicion because I was curious how much I would lose if I rejected the case. “What sort of money are we talking about?”

“Fifteen grand,” my client blurted flatly with no warning at all. Her eyes fixed on me like a sheriff squinting at a wanted cowboy as if she had waited for this moment the entire time.

Although I had somehow expected to receive a strange offer, it caught me entirely off guard, making me bite my tongue, surprised. I felt like I had a massive ball of dry sand in my mouth, blocking my throat. I had actually never seen that much money piled up except when I dreamed I was elected sultan of New Brunei, but even then, I didn’t see my billions and trillions of dollars—I just knew I had them.

“It’s an advance payment—a starter, if you will.” The environmentalist went on slyly, making my choice even more terrible. “You’ll get another ten grand later when we ensure you’ve done the job properly.”

I immediately felt my waist softening and my ass sliding off the chair toward the floor. My feet instinctively tried to prevent that, and my legs became entangled with my client’s under the desk. It came out as if I was hitting on her the old-fashioned way—from the times when tacky meant style.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bjornson,” I quickly drew back to escape the stupid situation, “but my office has a rather minimalist flair. Every little move here threatens good manners and proper behavior, especially if a very beautiful woman is around!”

Miss Bjornson unexpectedly blushed. Her left hand grabbed the fingers of her right one and nervously started kneading them, with her intense gaze fixed on me. Her reaction was a bit weird because it was just a trivial compliment, except maybe for the word “very,” which made me wonder what my visitor’s behavior was supposed to mean in terms of Freudism. Was it possible that she liked me?

To avoid the stupid pause that followed, I quickly went back to business, asking, “So you want me to take a picture of this Chavez guy, right? I could do this for you, but I wonder what difference such a photo would make. Would you be so kind as to explain your idea?”

The environmentalist stopped kneading her fingers, and her eyes suddenly evaded mine. “I prefer not to,” she said quickly. “But I can understand your concern. To alleviate this, I would suggest you shoot these pictures from a safe distance. You’ll be provided with a professional camera with powerful zoom lenses and everything else you need.”

“That would be really nice,” I agreed. “Nevertheless, I keep asking myself, you know, why won’t you shoot them if it’s such a safe job?” Something deep inside me was still unsatisfied, and I wanted to make sure she wasn’t trying to set me up.

Miss Bjornson remained calm and didn’t show nervousness this time. Her angelic blue eyes looked at me without blinking. “It’s because we need a specialist,” she explained composedly. “And you are a specialist, right? You’ll go to the place, look around, choose the right spot, and do everything else needed for success. We wouldn’t want to mess it up because there may not be a second chance afterward. Besides, if something messes up, god forbid, we wouldn’t want to be involved!”

I replied nothing. Although her explanation seemed convincing, the job itself was still suspicious, and I didn’t know what to do.

“Let me ask you something else, Miss Bjornson. May I?” I decided to try one last time to make her spill the beans. “Please, tell me, why would the Chinese mafia in Greenland want to kill rhinoceroses in the first place? They’ve got a really lucrative business here, like killing people and selling drugs, and I can’t imagine why they would risk attracting so much attention to it.”

My weird visitor bit at her lower lip and stayed silent for a few seconds, just looking at me. I gathered she was trying to come up with a credible lie. Incidentally, she had beautiful and inviting lips.

“You’re not familiar with Eastern cultures, Mr. Mellrow, are you?” she unexpectedly asked afterward.

“I’m afraid not,” I agreed.

“People in Asia are crazy about rhino horns—especially the Chinese! They believe their substances have the power to cure infertility. Since China disintegrated, this problem has deepened, and their birth rate is only one per thousand people. It’s a serious social issue there!”

“So you mean they may eventually become an endangered species?” I smiled, smirking at my own wit.

“Of course, you could say that. Eventually!” Miss Bjornson tried to smile, too, but she pulled quite a weird expression. Not a single muscle on her face acted right, and I wasn’t even sure she intended a smile, really. “This problem is a delicate matter for Chinese males, and after so many painful losses, the country desperately needs more people, as you can imagine. So the powder is a very profitable business these days!”

I looked at the door behind her, pondering her last words. It was actually all true. China had suffered too many losses over the past decade after the communists failed to hold power. Its territory was only half the size it used to be. First, Tibet split away from it; then Inner Mongolia and Manchuria went to Mongolia and, respectively, to Korea; and the last nail in the coffin was when Vietnam annexed the entire southern fourth of the country. China was now just a ghost of her previous self and often referred to as Chinasia—a collective term for all the territories in which the Chinese lived. It consisted mainly of independent city-states and very small countries.

“Yes, I can imagine.” I thoughtfully turned my eyes back to Miss Bjornson, still hesitant. “But I don’t see why the local Chinese must be the middleman here. Why wouldn’t Greenspace direct the stuff to East Asia instead of making round-trips?”

“Well, you know how it is in the South China Sea. It’s too risky for the ships to go through Indonesia and the Philippines!”

“You mean because of the pirates?”

“Of course, I mean that! Besides, pirates are hungry for rhino horns, too. The safest route is sailing to Greenland and then through the North Pole to Chinasia. The Chinese here will keep part of the stuff to distribute among the neighborhoods in America and Europe, and the rest will be headed for their motherland. By the way, Mr. Mellrow, you’re asking questions now, the answers to which I do not and could not know for sure. You make me speculate! And I think I’ve already given you sufficient information to take your decision, so maybe you should just decide.”

“Well, excuse my ignorance, Miss Bjornson,” I said, ignoring her last remark, “but I’m still confused. Isn’t Greenspace supposed to take care of nature instead of destroying it? At least that’s what I’ve heard!”

She gave me a tired smile. “Yes, it used to be like that, and maybe in an ideal world, it will be again. Over the years, however, with global warming increasing and other problems piling up, governments started allocating a lot of money for preserving nature to save their face, and it all became a business. Following that, some preservationists grew rich, but money corrupts, you know. Many of our sister organizations have gone too far, and Greenspace, in particular, is one of them.”

The environmentalist suddenly reached into her purse and slowly took out a fat envelope, twiddling it impatiently in her hands. It was obvious that she thought this interview was over.

“So, will you do the job, Mr. Mellrow? After so many questions, I can’t decide whether you want it or not!” She asked me directly.

I furtively glanced at the envelope and swallowed twice before answering because I didn’t want to look soft and drooling while fighting sandballs in my mouth.

“Is that all you’d want, Miss Bjornson? Just take a few pictures of the guy, and that’s it?”

“Provided that you take them properly, that’s all.”

“And then I’ll get another ten grand?”

“You’ll get it right away!” She gave me a nod.

“Okay, then. Where’s the deal-brokering expected to happen?”

“It’s in a small Chinese restaurant uptown on Fifth and Thirty-Sixth Streets.”

“And when?”

“The day after tomorrow, sharply at noon.”

“What happens if I can’t get in?”

“Oh, you won’t need to get in,” Miss Bjornson assured me, happy we were finally talking business. “In fact, you won’t be able to do it! They’ll close the restaurant, but you shouldn’t worry. The establishment’s like a fast food place—long and narrow, stretching along the street. You’ll just have to find a proper spot outside on the opposite sidewalk and hide there, waiting. The meeting will occur at a table next to the windows because there’s simply no inner part—only the kitchen and other service areas.

“And what if they put down the blinds?”

She shook her head. “They won’t! Chavez is a suspicious man; he’d want to retain visual contact with his thugs outside on the street.”

“Oh, there will be thugs then!” I exclaimed, suddenly disappointed.

“I didn’t say there would be no danger, Mr. Mellrow! Otherwise, it wouldn’t pay twenty-five grand, don’t you think? And here is the moment to remind you that if something goes wrong, we’ve never met!”

“Of course. I understand that.” I mumbled, suddenly realizing I would be on Fifth and Thirty-Sixth without backup. I was going to be alone there against a pack of enraged mobsters, probably armed with machine guns, and no one would watch my back. “I’ll see that I take your dear secrets to another world if push comes to shove!”

I looked at her, expecting to see her smile, but she showed no reaction to my joke. I wasn’t even sure she realized I was joking at all. After that, assuming the deal was sealed and I had taken her case, Miss Bjornson stood up, leaving the envelope on the desk. As she did so, she leaned forward, but not long enough to flash me with her charming little boobs again.

“We’ll be in touch for the details soon,” she said briefly.

I stood up, too, squeezing myself between the desk and the wall to open the door for her. Since there wasn’t enough room, I had to rub my hips into hers, which she accepted silently. A moment later, when she was going out of the office, she returned the gesture and rubbed her hips into mine. Then, at last, we parted.

I closed the door behind her and slowly turned around, fixing my eyes on the envelope. It looked like some grotesque wallet stuffed with money, promising a lot of trouble for me. It seemed that my financial worries were gone now, at least temporarily, but I wasn’t as happy as I expected to be.

Besides leaving me suspicious but slightly richer, my client also left her business card behind. I went to pick it up and look at it. It was a simplistic piece of white paper that just read, “Bobby Bjornson—environmentalist.” There was absolutely nothing more on the face—no company, no phone number, or anything else—and the back was blank too. This clearly indicated she would be the one to call me for the details.

I threw the card on the desk and opened the envelope. It was full of one-hundred-dollar bills, and my fingers thoughtfully ran along their edges. I couldn’t figure out what part of the weird story I was presented with smelled worse: the fact that someone wanted to pay twenty-five grand for a few stupid pictures or that they intended to save rhinoceroses with them. Nevertheless, touching these pieces of paper felt really nice because they could restart my life, and I liked it. To be fair, I probably liked my new client, too, because if it hadn’t been for her, I probably wouldn’t have taken that case in the first place. And yet, I still couldn’t get rid of the thought that it was the wrong decision!

©2016 S.T. Fargo
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