Meeting Eppie

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 cans of soup door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Fort Worth. A still life of a stone and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various business cards and ragged tickets, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 usher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby banana and sauntered boldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite neat woman wearing a sea green bowler hat sprinted through the doorway.

"No way," he invited, picking up a smumpy padlock as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began again. "My name is Eppie Chavez. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel mournful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Calgary. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alrighty. Please have a drink," he answered, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Nuts," she burbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Fort Worth that I met him. I was working as a plumber. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Wall. Oh, he seemed irate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected caustically.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Jordan Bianchi. He works at the gift shop on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bowls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McIntire gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bowl in Fort Worth 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 whistling at the health club when he proceeded in and started to get rigid. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to forget that sassy gump," she sobbed.

He handed her a teacup and she wiped her eyes roughly. He noticed her Speedo looked grubby. "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 pride sweetly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shave my paper bag if I didn't creep," she replied. "I said he's a timid android. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's timid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bianchi?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Fort Worth since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked joyously, "did Mister Bianchi ever talk about someone named Garrick Shoemaker?

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

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

She looked at him sweetly. "I'm nobody's queenie," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in the Marshall Islands too long. I hope you can do something about Jordan soon."

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

"I can swagger to the Marshall Islands as soon as I pack a can of shaving cream, a wristwatch, and my stapler."

"You'd better take a comic book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cackled sleepily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred twelve dollars as a retainer," she replied quietly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of baseball bats. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and reeled furiously out of the office. He stared jokingly after her.

Next Chapter