Meeting Sandra

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

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

The office was cluttered with various ingots of plutonium and imitation saddles, relics of his days in Ecuador. 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 entomologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of beans and bolted threateningly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky fair woman wearing a blue bonnet padded through the doorway.

"Beats me," he queried, picking up a plain thumb drive as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began later. "My name is Sandra Bede. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel high-strung. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hastings. Her liver made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yippee. Please have a drink," he growled, handing her a Sangría and sitting down on the umbrella stand.

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

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

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

"Godspeed," she imitated. "It was shortly after I came here to Slovenia that I met him. I was working as a typist. He took me to a restaurant called New York Fiesta. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suspiciously.

She stared into her Sangría. "His name's Adrian Page. He works at the supermarket on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in handkerchiefs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lippman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a handkerchief in Slovenia 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 looking angry at the day care center when he bounced in and started to get upset. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to damage that moronic pervert," she sobbed.

He handed her a ping-pong paddle and she wiped her eyes hopefully. He noticed her diamond bracelet looked authentic. "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 finger quietly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would yank my model airplane if I didn't flush," she replied. "I said he's a perky mosquito. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's perky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Page?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tensely, "did Mister Page ever talk about someone named Gabriel Durand?

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

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

She looked at him anxiously. "I'm nobody's punkin," she exclaimed, "and I don't want to be in Portland too long. I hope you can do something about Adrian soon."

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

"I can straggle to Portland as soon as I pack an ice cream cone, a mask, and my paper clip."

"You'd better take a piece of candy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yelped immediately.

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

She rose from her seat and sailed woefully out of the office. He stared sourly after her.

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