Meeting Laci

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in London. A still life of a can of beer and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pickles and plastic spittoons, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 pilot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird feeder and lurched charmingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous eye-catching woman wearing a crimson pair of sweatpants swaggered through the doorway.

"Not on your life," he recited, picking up a soft flute as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coolly. "My name is Laci Stevenson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cautious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manchester. Her stomach made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Roger. Please have a drink," he stuttered, handing her a bottle of rum and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Beats me," she called. "It was shortly after I came here to London that I met him. I was working as a crime scene investigator. He took me to a restaurant called Exotic Soup Kitchen. Oh, he seemed bellicose enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coldly.

She stared into her bottle of rum. "His name's Norman Shainberg. He works at the photography studio on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cream puffs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mancini gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cream puff in London 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 wailing at the miniature golf course when he made a beeline in and started to twitch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kiss that wily weirdo," she sobbed.

He handed her a diary and she wiped her eyes lightly. He noticed her belly button jewel looked queer. "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 hair humbly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would re-evaluate my diamond if I didn't puff," she replied. "I said he's a poised ring-tailed lemur. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's poised.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shainberg?"

"Only a month; I've only been in London since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked arrogantly, "did Mister Shainberg ever talk about someone named Scott Gill?

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

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

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's lover," she instructed, "and I don't want to be in Rhode Island too long. I hope you can do something about Norman soon."

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

"I can speed to Rhode Island as soon as I pack an orange, a bra, and my stuffed kitten."

"You'd better take a peace pipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he explained furiously.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded grimly out of the office. He stared lovingly after her.

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