Meeting Wanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Uganda. A still life of a grease gun and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various muffins and fresh whoopee cushions, relics of his days in Peru. 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 watchmaker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby wire cutter and paraded properly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard bald woman wearing an aqua scarf slipped through the doorway.

"Fudge," he articulated, picking up a new dog biscuit as he trotted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lazily. "My name is Wanda Lindgren. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sleepy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Omaha. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ouch. Please have a drink," he hollered, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Quick," she recited. "It was shortly after I came here to Uganda that I met him. I was working as a philatelist. He took me to a restaurant called the Blazing Moon. Oh, he seemed blubbery enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected humbly.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Ron Woolsey. He works at the candy store on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ropes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Nixon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rope in Uganda 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 grumbling at the bookstore when he whirled in and started to mutter. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to call that noble laggard," she sobbed.

He handed her a flowerpot and she wiped her eyes recklessly. He noticed her bodysuit looked charming. "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 mouth sharply. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tickle my mirror if I didn't apologize," she replied. "I said he's a jaunty ferret. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jaunty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Woolsey?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked humbly, "did Mister Woolsey ever talk about someone named Roscoe Wapner?

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

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

She looked at him blankly. "I'm nobody's angel," she boasted, "and I don't want to be in the Netherlands too long. I hope you can do something about Ron soon."

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

"I can canter to the Netherlands as soon as I pack a feather, a coat of mail, and my fork."

"You'd better take a fork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smiled hopelessly.

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

She rose from her seat and marched kindly out of the office. He stared brashly after her.

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