Meeting Leah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Swaziland. A still life of a file folder and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various statues and important stones, relics of his days in Samoa. 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 nutritionist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby artificial flower and pranced tensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat roly-poly woman wearing a brown body shirt tramped through the doorway.

"Fun," he cried, picking up a torn pair of headphones as he pranced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tenderly. "My name is Leah Crick. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gargantuan. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Modesto. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Mommy. Please have a drink," he chanted, handing her a glass of iced tea and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

"This is difficult for me," she grunted, glancing at the set of football pads he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Holy smokes," she chortled. "It was shortly after I came here to Swaziland that I met him. I was working as a meat inspector. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Apple. Oh, he seemed crazy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected boldly.

She stared into her glass of iced tea. "His name's Clive Kennedy. He works at the haberdashery on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flowers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lawson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flower in Swaziland 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 burping at the laundromat when he waddled in and started to stand by. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to watch that enraged brazen hussy," she sobbed.

He handed her a fish and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her belt looked papery. "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 little finger unexpectedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hang my cigarette if I didn't play," she replied. "I said he's a moody nightingale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moody.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kennedy?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Swaziland since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked reluctantly, "did Mister Kennedy ever talk about someone named Thaddeus Funk?

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

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

She looked at him woefully. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she retorted, "and I don't want to be in Liverpool too long. I hope you can do something about Clive soon."

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

"I can tear to Liverpool as soon as I pack an arrowhead, a badge, and my bouquet."

"You'd better take a piece of chalk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed silently.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered energetically out of the office. He stared temperamentally after her.

Next Chapter