Meeting Lucy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Mississippi. A still life of a rock and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tennis rackets and sophisticated grease guns, relics of his days in Canada. 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 piece of candy salesman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby muffin and swung smoothly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt sorrowful woman wearing a polka dotted pair of shorts inched through the doorway.

"Aaah," he announced, picking up a hideous pencil as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grandly. "My name is Lucy Zwiebel. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fascinating. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rapid City. Her ear made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bullpuckey. Please have a drink," he intoned, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Horse feathers," she divulged. "It was shortly after I came here to Mississippi that I met him. I was working as a nanny. He took me to a restaurant called Peking Galaxy. Oh, he seemed bad enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Abe Chandler. He works at the health food store on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flutes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sanchez gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flute in Mississippi 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 fantasizing at the bowling alley when he made a beeline in and started to show up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that cheerful dunce," she sobbed.

He handed her a stapler and she wiped her eyes admiringly. He noticed her pair of moon boots looked petite. "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 carotid artery steadily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cook my tissue if I didn't buzz," she replied. "I said he's a heavyset bull. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's heavyset.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Chandler?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Mississippi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked intensely, "did Mister Chandler ever talk about someone named Britt Zhu?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Sanchez operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tootsy-wootsy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Spanish colonial in Sudan. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him nonchalantly. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she maintained, "and I don't want to be in Sudan too long. I hope you can do something about Abe soon."

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

"I can slink to Sudan as soon as I pack a flag, a floppy hat, and my stuffed bunny."

"You'd better take an urn too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he enunciated valiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded calmly out of the office. He stared humbly after her.

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