Meeting Lorena

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Bangkok. A still life of a tube of glue and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cans of shaving cream and wet crutches, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 quarantine inspector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby shovel and tore sleepily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty brown-eyed woman wearing an olive drab ski mask sprinted through the doorway.

"Boy howdy," he howled, picking up a mysterious spool of thread as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nicely. "My name is Lorena Ortiz. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Warsaw. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "At last. Please have a drink," he breathed, handing her a martini and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Lo and behold," she warbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Bangkok that I met him. I was working as an Uber driver. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Knife. Oh, he seemed decisive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected confidently.

She stared into her martini. "His name's Michaelangelo Wooten. He works at the art museum on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of popcorn."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Funk gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of popcorn in Bangkok 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 barking at the taco shop when he skidded in and started to smile. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to laugh at that blubbery eager beaver," she sobbed.

He handed her a comb and she wiped her eyes mysteriously. He noticed her black belt looked jagged. "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 waist ingeniously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stain my Helmholz resonator if I didn't pass out," she replied. "I said he's a demented bat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wooten?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Bangkok since then."

"I see." He felt for his Colt 45 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked strictly, "did Mister Wooten ever talk about someone named Logan Dick?

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

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

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's bud," she spewed, "and I don't want to be in Italy too long. I hope you can do something about Michaelangelo soon."

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

"I can skip to Italy as soon as I pack a piece of candy, a diaper, and my pencil."

"You'd better take a washrag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chanted noisily.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed nonchalantly out of the office. He stared suavely after her.

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