Meeting Fiona

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Atlanta. A still life of a helmet and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various coat check tickets and fuzzy sacks of potatoes, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 correctional officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paper towel and staggered furiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf petite woman wearing a rose coat waded through the doorway.

"Fine," he crooned, picking up a fabulous hip flask as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began again. "My name is Fiona Sekora. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel pigeon-toed. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Canberra. Her hoof made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Get outta here. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"Bada bing bada boom," she reminded. "It was shortly after I came here to Atlanta that I met him. I was working as a housekeeper. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Star. Oh, he seemed distressed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sweetly.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Rip Brooks. He works at the photography studio on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in key rings."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ackerman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a key ring in Atlanta 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 shivering at the K-Mart when he waltzed in and started to think. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to doubt that humble chowderhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a coin and she wiped her eyes lovingly. He noticed her pair of tights looked chic. "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 chest charmingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stab my ingot of plutonium if I didn't leer," she replied. "I said he's a sloppy bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sloppy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brooks?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Atlanta since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sheepishly, "did Mister Brooks ever talk about someone named Quint Ecklund?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him timidly. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she griped, "and I don't want to be in Brussels too long. I hope you can do something about Rip soon."

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

"I can slither to Brussels as soon as I pack a basket, a pair of earmuffs, and my piece of chalk."

"You'd better take a calling card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed intensely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred sixty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied stealthily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of floppy disks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and swung slyly out of the office. He stared unexpectedly after her.

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