Meeting Lucy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Poland. A still life of a pain pill and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various playing cards and woven flutes, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 missionary, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clarinet and proceeded busily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied frumpy woman wearing a fuchsia gunny sack ambled through the doorway.

"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to," he proposed, picking up a gleaming baby doll as he proceeded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began threateningly. "My name is Lucy Ping. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jolly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Little Big Horn. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokeroo. Please have a drink," he persisted, handing her a Bloody Mary and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

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

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

"Ay yi yi," she gabbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Poland that I met him. I was working as a violinist. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Dinner. Oh, he seemed friendly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected rapidly.

She stared into her Bloody Mary. "His name's Lester Sanders. He works at the used car lot on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of groceries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wimple gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of groceries in Poland 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 yelping at the party when he galloped in and started to wiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to irritate that self-assured nerd," she sobbed.

He handed her a telephone and she wiped her eyes delicately. He noticed her mask looked rusty. "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 esophagus smoothly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would disguise my stuffed bunny if I didn't step aside," she replied. "I said he's a puzzled beagle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's puzzled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sanders?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crossly, "did Mister Sanders ever talk about someone named Running Bear Salinger?

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

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

She looked at him hastily. "I'm nobody's old bean," she reasoned, "and I don't want to be in Morocco too long. I hope you can do something about Lester soon."

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

"I can tumble to Morocco as soon as I pack a peach, a pair of briefs, and my horseshoe."

"You'd better take a hair dryer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he noted woodenly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred seventy-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied hopefully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of thumb drives. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and dove fearlessly out of the office. He stared coldly after her.

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