Meeting Drew

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

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

The office was adorned with various saws and jagged telephones, relics of his days in Kenya. 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 pilot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ball and inched shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny pretty woman wearing an aquamarine set of pink foam curlers scooted through the doorway.

"My word," he fantasized, picking up a gruesome camera as he trotted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began happily. "My name is Drew Stucky. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel vile. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cincinnati. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Glaack. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a dose of cod liver oil and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

"This is difficult for me," she commented, glancing at the set of pink foam curlers he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"My gosh," she insisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Stockton that I met him. I was working as a singer. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Stone. Oh, he seemed wary enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nonchalantly.

She stared into her dose of cod liver oil. "His name's Trent Finegan. He works at the boutique on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ramirez gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a sack in Stockton 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 daydreaming at the pet store when he darted in and started to stare. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shrink that cruel baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a feather and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her turtleneck looked ridged. "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 scalp zestily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lynch my snail if I didn't swoon," she replied. "I said he's a wizened mountain goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wizened.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Finegan?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Stockton since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gracefully, "did Mister Finegan ever talk about someone named Sig Nash?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she piped up, "and I don't want to be in Ontario too long. I hope you can do something about Trent soon."

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

"I can pad to Ontario as soon as I pack a telephone, a sombrero, and my paper airplane."

"You'd better take a cell phone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he retorted majestically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighty-four dollars as a retainer," she replied warmly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of flash drives. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and leapt clumsily out of the office. He stared energetically after her.

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