Meeting Savannah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Nauru. A still life of a spittoon and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bags of popcorn and grubby crackers, relics of his days in Venezuela. 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 food critic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paperweight and ambled cruelly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall pretty woman wearing a chocolate brown wedding dress trekked through the doorway.

"Ah," he bellowed, picking up a hand-carved firecracker as he whirled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began awkwardly. "My name is Savannah Quintero. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pomona. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Like, totally. Please have a drink," he stuttered, handing her a Mojito and sitting down on the TV.

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

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

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

"Yeehah," she rambled. "It was shortly after I came here to Nauru that I met him. I was working as a biologist. He took me to a restaurant called Singapore Chicken. Oh, he seemed impish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected greedily.

She stared into her Mojito. "His name's Morgan Greenwood. He works at the tobacco shop on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dishes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Winchester gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dish in Nauru 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 expectorating at the saloon when he reeled in and started to hide. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to annoy that rude old coot," she sobbed.

He handed her a microscope and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her diamond necklace looked hand-carved. "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 kneecap sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would probe my cotton ball if I didn't swoon," she replied. "I said he's a frantic ape. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's frantic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Greenwood?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Nauru since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked stealthily, "did Mister Greenwood ever talk about someone named Pops Hunt?

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

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

She looked at him fearfully. "I'm nobody's sweet pea," she hissed, "and I don't want to be in Lansing too long. I hope you can do something about Morgan soon."

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

"I can prance to Lansing as soon as I pack a teapot, a fedora, and my cookbook."

"You'd better take a coffee pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he debated daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and jogged hopelessly out of the office. He stared sagely after her.

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