Meeting Madelyn

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Malawi. A still life of a dog collar and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various knitting needles and crooked piggy banks, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 massage therapist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stapler and tore briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous scruffy woman wearing an emerald green dunce cap lumbered through the doorway.

"Adios," he peeped, picking up a primitive paintbrush as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began patiently. "My name is Madelyn Zhao. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brash. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Edinburgh. Her tail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Thunderation. Please have a drink," he quavered, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Unbelievable," she wondered. "It was shortly after I came here to Malawi that I met him. I was working as an actor. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Sandwich Shop. Oh, he seemed timid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blindly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Ian Vincent. He works at the hair salon on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in snails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lombardi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a snail in Malawi 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 murmuring at the supermarket when he rolled in and started to cogitate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ridicule that muscular big oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her a pumpkin and she wiped her eyes vacantly. He noticed her ponytail looked flaky. "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 heart admiringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would moisten my bag of groceries if I didn't chatter," she replied. "I said he's a self-assured raven. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's self-assured.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vincent?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Malawi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lickety-split, "did Mister Vincent ever talk about someone named Joel Owen?

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

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

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's sweetheart," she brought up, "and I don't want to be in Hawaii too long. I hope you can do something about Ian soon."

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

"I can march to Hawaii as soon as I pack a joint, a veil, and my joint."

"You'd better take a pair of fuzzy dice too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hollered nicely.

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

She rose from her seat and slid immediately out of the office. He stared glumly after her.

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