Meeting Sandi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Modesto. A still life of a shovel and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various darts and jagged bedpans, relics of his days in Poland. 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 diver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candle and blundered fiercely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic tall woman wearing a sparkly headband tumbled through the doorway.

"Uh," he taunted, picking up a gigantic set of scrubs as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began rapidly. "My name is Sandi Bender. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sweet. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Montreal. Her antenna made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My word. Please have a drink," he intoned, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Touché," she retorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Modesto that I met him. I was working as a huckster. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Urn. Oh, he seemed stubborn enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected thoughtfully.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Britt Spangler. He works at the photography studio on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Borovich gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rag in Modesto 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 drooling at the radio station when he slunk in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to operate on that urbane big oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her a notepad and she wiped her eyes glibly. He noticed her apron looked peculiar. "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 abdomen again. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would polish my hammer if I didn't chortle," she replied. "I said he's a dowdy owl. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dowdy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Spangler?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sympathetically, "did Mister Spangler ever talk about someone named Hank Perry?

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

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

She looked at him stupidly. "I'm nobody's flower," she emphasized, "and I don't want to be in Malawi too long. I hope you can do something about Britt soon."

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

"I can run to Malawi as soon as I pack a cracker, a tutu, and my barbell."

"You'd better take a mousetrap too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blathered properly.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed sorrowfully out of the office. He stared quickly after her.

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