Meeting Drew

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Ohio. A still life of a curling iron and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bats and archaic boxes of candy, relics of his days in Egypt. 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 proofreader, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candy cane and waddled sharply toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied disheveled woman wearing a khaki pair of nylons sidled through the doorway.

"Quick," he smiled, picking up a delicate crayon as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began wryly. "My name is Drew Butterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel solitary. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Ana. Her tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blecch. Please have a drink," he admitted, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Duh," she recited. "It was shortly after I came here to Ohio that I met him. I was working as a fisherman. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed brilliant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vigorously.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Anthony Del Genio. He works at the fortune teller shop on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stopwatches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ping gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stopwatch in Ohio 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 snorting at the senior citizens center when he sailed in and started to moan. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to call the cops on that poised louse," she sobbed.

He handed her a firecracker and she wiped her eyes sheepishly. He noticed her floppy hat looked polished. "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 cheek fiercely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my ping-pong paddle if I didn't glare," she replied. "I said he's a rugged mustang. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rugged.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Del Genio?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Ohio since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Del Genio ever talk about someone named Alistair Koch?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Ping operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, turtle dove, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice junk car in Afghanistan. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's turtle dove," she laughed, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Anthony soon."

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

"I can scoot to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a chart, a fedora, and my gun."

"You'd better take a daisy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vouched testily.

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

She rose from her seat and clambered diligently out of the office. He stared pityingly after her.

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