Meeting Erica

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Malta. A still life of a knitting needle and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dollhouses and gaudy bells, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 matador, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basket and sallied forth anxiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky suave woman wearing a magenta Eton jacket darted through the doorway.

"Hold your horses," he maintained, picking up an electronic clothespin as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began demurely. "My name is Erica van Veen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel eccentric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Grand Rapids. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Tubular. Please have a drink," he ranted, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Good gravy," she insisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Malta that I met him. I was working as a pawnbroker. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Food Factory. Oh, he seemed sassy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sleepily.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Ichabod Hoffmann. He works at the liquor store on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in grease guns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Chu gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a grease gun in Malta 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 backing down at the poetry reading when he stormed in and started to yell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to challenge that sanguine hoodlum," she sobbed.

He handed her a comic book and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her Speedo looked crude. "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 tongue positively. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remember my candy cane if I didn't nod," she replied. "I said he's a presumptuous kangaroo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's presumptuous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hoffmann?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked vacantly, "did Mister Hoffmann ever talk about someone named Conrad Marshall?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Chu operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, apple of my eye, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice office in Algeria. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him crankily. "I'm nobody's apple of my eye," she mused, "and I don't want to be in Algeria too long. I hope you can do something about Ichabod soon."

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

"I can bound to Algeria as soon as I pack a fork, a turtleneck, and my box."

"You'd better take a teddy bear too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he purred admiringly.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed sympathetically out of the office. He stared humbly after her.

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