Meeting Lucy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Namibia. A still life of a pizza and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various screwdrivers and dry lemons, relics of his days in Sri Lanka. 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 euphonium player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby twig and climbed swiftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe white woman wearing an olive green beanie flounced through the doorway.

"Gads," he proposed, picking up a hard pencil sharpener as he sneaked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began violently. "My name is Lucy Douglas. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel corpulent. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lexington. Her little toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ahh. Please have a drink," he inquired, handing her a secret potion and sitting down on the overstuffed chair.

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

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

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

"Hold your horses," she hinted. "It was shortly after I came here to Namibia that I met him. I was working as a police officer. He took me to a restaurant called the Blazing Restaurant. Oh, he seemed pensive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected effortlessly.

She stared into her secret potion. "His name's Dean Montoya. He works at the haberdashery on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in teapots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hyde gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a teapot in Namibia 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 buzzing at the supermarket when he dashed in and started to chew. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sing to that distressed sloth," she sobbed.

He handed her a playing card and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her pair of boxing gloves looked gross. "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 ankle valiantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would guard my tissue if I didn't get angry," she replied. "I said he's a vile garter snake. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's vile.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Montoya?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Namibia 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 Dean Montoya is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked mysteriously, "did Mister Montoya ever talk about someone named Nathan Romano?

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

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

She looked at him awkwardly. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she cried, "and I don't want to be in Denmark too long. I hope you can do something about Dean soon."

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

"I can bolt to Denmark as soon as I pack a router, a fig leaf, and my bowling ball."

"You'd better take a file folder too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sniffed rapidly.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed sourly out of the office. He stared charmingly after her.

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