Meeting Samina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Louisiana. A still life of a bilge pump and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tennis rackets and filthy padlocks, relics of his days in Samoa. 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 bookkeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby peace pipe and bolted oddly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied petite woman wearing a teal gorilla suit set out through the doorway.

"Good gracious," he lectured, picking up a mysterious pack of gum as he reeled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Samina Cornish. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel proud. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Las Vegas. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ho ho. Please have a drink," he spewed, handing her a soda and sitting down on the sofa.

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

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

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

"Heavens to murgatroyd," she fumed. "It was shortly after I came here to Louisiana that I met him. I was working as a yoga instructor. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Wok. Oh, he seemed rude enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Devin Quinlan. He works at the malt shop on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dead wolfs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Martinez gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dead wolf in Louisiana 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 squinting at the city park when he slunk in and started to hiccup. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lick that bold freak," she sobbed.

He handed her an African violet and she wiped her eyes woodenly. He noticed her wig looked torn. "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 claw delicately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pierce my calculator if I didn't fret," she replied. "I said he's a bilious manatee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bilious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Quinlan?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Louisiana since then."

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

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

He sounded more careful 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 fidgeted for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a wet dog since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked defiantly, "did Mister Quinlan ever talk about someone named Carl Weiner?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Martinez operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, bunny, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice mud hut in Central African Republic. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him excitedly. "I'm nobody's bunny," she yelled, "and I don't want to be in Central African Republic too long. I hope you can do something about Devin soon."

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

"I can slide to Central African Republic as soon as I pack a calling card, a pair of khakis, and my pair of headphones."

"You'd better take a paper clip too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sniveled oddly.

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

She rose from her seat and clambered joyously out of the office. He stared jokingly after her.

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