Butch Wiggens leaned dangerously backward on his rickety swivel chair, sighting between his size twelve shoes and tossing crumpled paper balls at a green garbage bag taped to his office wall. Filing was not his forte and this was eminently more fun. He was still flushing the erotic fantasies from his mind after meeting with the stunning Bondra Croft and accepting gladly his assignment to make a bag switch with some broad in a local mall. Simple stuff that any boob could handle but any work for Jaeger, Croft, Ditchburn and Silverberg was worth whatever it took; Butch was eager to situate himself as the go-to-guy for all their investigations. This was their second bit of business and Butch dreamt of Wiggens & DeFoe Private Investigations being little more than a pair of unemployable losers with an unusually large number of connections and sources in a city filled with more than enough people to fill their needs. It was only due to his sister, who for reasons unfathomable to their family, had attended Celtic dance classes with Bondra Croft, and through that association afforded Butch the opportunity to pick up the odd job at JCD&S, a circumstance he embraced whole heartedly after meeting the stunning Bondra. If such designations could logically be applied, Butch represented the brains of the business and Daryl DeFoe, his partner, was the gopher and occasional muscle. In this capacity, he continued refining his fantasies and shooting paper balls while waiting for Daryl to return with news that the switch had been made.  

      "Lois says she's still waitin' for that drink after work you promised her." Daryl pushed his way into the cramped office carrying the bag hooked over one arm and balancing a pair of Styrofoam containers on top of two large paper cups of coffee.

Butch grunted and sat up, helping himself to one of the containers. "Lois misunderstood."

"What part of, wanna have a drink after work some night, don't you think she got?"

Butch gave him an evil look. "Never mind Lois. Bondra Croft's assignment is our main concern at the moment."

"Hooo, the stunning Bondra O'Croft. Did you make a move on her?"

"Daryl," Butch sighed, "you don't just 'make a move' on a woman like Bondra. You have to finesse a bit; ease into the situation. "

"Or else, you mean, she might misunderstand?"

"We're done talking about this, Daryl, got it? Not another word. Did you make the switch?"

Daryl stood the bag on the desk and took his lunch to a chair in the corner. "Dopey bitch had me chasin' all through the store. I waited in the restaurant and she didn't show then I see her scooting through the store with the bag and I hadda run her down."

      Butch was staring into the shopping bag while Daryl recounted his tale. His face was pale and damp with perspiration. "This some kinda gag, Daryl," he asked, pulling out several pairs of socks and some DVDs.

*****

Christopher retrieved his socks and shoes, grabbed his wallet, change, comb and keys and breezed out the door and down the sluggish elevator to the lobby, finally stepping once again into the heavy morning air. 'Shit, I forgot to brush my teeth', he complained, nudging some mushy bagel from behind a molar with his tongue. "Probably packed it in with the doughnut now." He shrugged and jogged through the traffic to the parking lot and the battalion of gulls chowing down on his neighbour's largess. His plan was to go back to the mall and see if the woman was still around and if not, he would check with the people in the coffee shop to see if they knew her or even remembered her. He knew it was pretty hopeless but what else could he do? The package contained two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and Christopher wasn't about to make any rash decisions.

*****

"First thing we have to do, Daryl, is find out where this broad lives," he waved a pair of the socks for emphasis.

"I'll call Lou at the D.O.T. and see if there's a license in her name."

"You know her name?"

"No. I thought you did. I thought the stunning Bondra gave you that information."

Butch nodded, his head continued bobbing while Daryl spoke. "It was an anonymous switch, Daryl. Nobody was supposed to know anybody. Is anyone home up there?" He pointed to his partner's head. Butch pulled a face and got up, walking to the dusty office window and glowering down at the street. If he pulled this off and proved that he was capable of high stakes investigations, he might find himself on Bondra's 'A' list. Yeah... and from there maybe even her good side. Butch chuckled at his private joke and turned from the window as Daryl was pulling on a pair of the socks.

"What are you doing?"

"Hey, their new and they fit so what the hell. They're men's socks, the broad sure won't want them back, eh?" He chuckled.

 "Try turning your precision wit to the problem at hand, would you."

"Butch, there's no way we can find this dame. You just finished saying it was all anonymous."

"Somebody knows her. Bondra hired her to make the switch."

"Why not just ask Bondra then?"

Butch blushed angrily, his eyes crossing as he searched for a retort. "I know that! Jesus, Daryl, anyone could come up with that."

"So?"

"So I wanted to approach it a little more obliquely, okay?"

"Why?"

"DARYL! Just get your ass outta that chair and go and fetch the car." He raised a stop sign hand, waving Daryl from the office, furious that his fixation on Bondra was blotting out his logic.

*****

With a frown and a disgusted sucking of teeth, Bondra studied the e-mail on her laptop. Walter Jaeger wanted an update on the Basker/South file, his code phrase for the bag switch he'd ordered. Walter was in no mood for delays and she knew it was early but she dialed Butch Wiggens' pager number and sat back, waiting.

"Pull over, I gotta get to a phone." Butch read the number calling from his pager display and immediately became excited.

"Who is it?" Daryl peeled across two lanes and ground to a dusty halt in front of a roadside stand.

"Why are we stopping here? I said I needed a phone."

"That's what they call that thing mounted in that little booth over there." Daryl pointed.

"Smartass." Thoroughly miffed, Butch got out of the car and scuffed across the gravel to the phone booth.

When the receptionist answered, Butch put on his haughty business voice and asked for Bondra Croft.

"Croft here."

"Miss Bond- aah Croft, Bernard Wiggens here. You paged me?"

"Bernard? You mean Butch?"

Silently he cursed the coarse nickname, hoping to sound more professional. "Uh yes, of Wiggens and DeFoe."

"Right. Update me, Butch, and make it good."

"Well uh- we uh- we're just on our way to uh- you know the young lady you faxed me about?"

      Bondra sat up and leaned over her desk, the receiver squeezed tightly in her fist. "Of course I know her, Butch? Why? All you had to do was meet her at the mall and switch bags. Right?"

"We uh- we made the switch, Miss Croft, just like you said... well almost, and we got back to our office and- and—"

"And what, Bernard" She said ominously.

"It was socks, Miss Croft." He lifted his shoulders and squeezed his eyes shut anticipating the following explosion.

"SOCKS! What the- what socks, Wiggens?"

      Last name was definitely not good. "That's what was in the bag. Socks and some DVDs; I think one was a James Bo—" The shout went through his head like a heated javelin and Butch backed away from the phone, terrified.

"Miss Croft? Miss Croft I know you don't care about the DVD, I was just—"

 "Jesus Christ, Wiggens! All you had to do was trade a goddamn shopping bag in the mall and you wind up with socks? Did my fax not say urgent at the top? Did it not say I-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-t?" Butch fumbled the wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket, trying to read while Bondra screamed down the line.

"Well we got right on—"

"Got right on what, Wiggens? What did you get right on?"

"We uh- we need her address, Bo- Miss Croft."

"I don't have her address, Wiggens. Our dealings were all made by untraceable cell calls. It appears you will have to find her through investigation doesn't it?" The sarcasm dripped with threat. "Call me back by eight o'clock tonight with a positive report. Got that, Butch?"

"Tonight? That doesn't give us—"

"EIGHT O'CLOCK, BUTCH!"

Got it, and may I say, working with you is indeed a pleas—"

"No!" Dial tone.

      "So who was it?"

"Our employer looking for news."

"Already? Jeez, she doesn't want much does she?"

"Daryl, I just now told her what happened. She didn't know about the mistake."

"Still, I mean hell, we got right on it didn't we?"

Butch remained silent, pouting at his reflection in the car window. That was not a good exchange, he thought. First impressions were important and he had looked like a bumbling boob. What was worse was the deadline he'd received; they were in big trouble. Butch glanced over at Daryl and settled on a thought. He would blame him.