Meeting Sandra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Malawi. A still life of a chess set and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various teddy bears and ridiculous bird cages, relics of his days in Laos. 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 organist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby daisy and sidled ruefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely sorrowful woman wearing a terra cotta pair of safety glasses trotted through the doorway.

"For heaven's sake," he appealed, picking up a colossal pair of binoculars as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began primly. "My name is Sandra Tubman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sociable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lima. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dang it. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her an ice cream soda and sitting down on the TV.

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

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

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

"Uh-oh," she sniped. "It was shortly after I came here to Malawi that I met him. I was working as a prisoner. He took me to a restaurant called the Hot Harvest. Oh, he seemed haggard enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gratefully.

She stared into her ice cream soda. "His name's Yancey Jacobs. He works at the bike shop on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in firecrackers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gotti gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a firecracker 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 creeping at the juice shop when he breezed in and started to groan. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to greet that wicked old biddy," she sobbed.

He handed her a toy and she wiped her eyes anxiously. He noticed her tool belt looked abnormal. "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 eye pitifully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dislodge my purse if I didn't wobble," she replied. "I said he's a suave lizard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's suave.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jacobs?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sadly, "did Mister Jacobs ever talk about someone named Carl Frizzlewump?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him tenderly. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in Delaware too long. I hope you can do something about Yancey soon."

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

"I can tumble to Delaware as soon as I pack a hammer, a tutu, and my painting."

"You'd better take a sack too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he commented hastily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred ten dollars as a retainer," she replied nimbly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pairs of pliers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and rolled gracefully out of the office. He stared doubtfully after her.

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