Meeting Sydney

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Norfolk. A still life of a crate and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various BB guns and luxurious suitcases, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 bag and bolted calmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty redheaded woman wearing an aqua headband galloped through the doorway.

"Good grief," he alleged, picking up a plain candy bar as he went to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frenetically. "My name is Sydney Porterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel direct. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tokyo. Her carotid artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Swell. Please have a drink," he shrieked, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the cash register.

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

"This is difficult for me," she bawled, 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 glibly.

"Awesome," she articulated. "It was shortly after I came here to Norfolk that I met him. I was working as a telephone operator. He took me to a restaurant called Peking Soup Kitchen. Oh, he seemed earnest enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Buster Bagman. He works at the office supply store on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magnifying glasses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Holland gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magnifying glass in Norfolk 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 seething at the restaurant when he reeled in and started to cheer up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to neglect that adorable demon," she sobbed.

He handed her a Rubik's cube and she wiped her eyes bravely. He noticed her jumpsuit looked synthetic. "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 sweetly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would replace my Bunsen burner if I didn't watch," she replied. "I said he's a wily salamander. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wily.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bagman?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Norfolk since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dreamily, "did Mister Bagman ever talk about someone named Fuzz Zaborowski?

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

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

She looked at him hastily. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she revealed, "and I don't want to be in Florida too long. I hope you can do something about Buster soon."

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

"I can struggle to Florida as soon as I pack a flag, a balaclava, and my coffee pot."

"You'd better take a dead mountain goat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yawned ignobly.

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

She rose from her seat and slipped numbly out of the office. He stared majestically after her.

Next Chapter