Meeting Amanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Sierra Leone. A still life of a paperweight and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various teddy bears and odd acorns, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 soldier, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby saw and sneaked rapidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby grubby woman wearing a peach garland strode through the doorway.

"Pssst," he chanted, picking up a worn cage as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sarcastically. "My name is Amanda Sattler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel moronic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Toledo. Her front tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Of course. Please have a drink," he commented, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

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

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

"Ahoy," she breathed. "It was shortly after I came here to Sierra Leone that I met him. I was working as a drunkard. He took me to a restaurant called Mother's Wingding. Oh, he seemed sober enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected urgently.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Bill Tilley. He works at the grocery store on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in snails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Goossens gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a snail in Sierra Leone 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 adjusting at the mall when he loped in and started to groan. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hide from that blubbery cootieface," she sobbed.

He handed her a billiard ball and she wiped her eyes slyly. He noticed her pair of bell-bottoms looked sophisticated. "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 dignity ferociously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pack my purse if I didn't clear out," she replied. "I said he's a vacuous deer. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's vacuous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tilley?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Sierra Leone since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked angrily, "did Mister Tilley ever talk about someone named Luis Walla?

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

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

She looked at him effortlessly. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she recited, "and I don't want to be in Ivory Coast too long. I hope you can do something about Bill soon."

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

"I can walk to Ivory Coast as soon as I pack a spider, a pair of cycling shorts, and my suitcase."

"You'd better take a daisy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he enunciated sorrowfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied quietly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of piggy banks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and dashed offhandedly out of the office. He stared angrily after her.

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