Meeting Liling

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

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

The office was adorned with various notepads and authentic oriental vases, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 oboist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby magazine and bounded diligently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous delicate woman wearing a green ribbon tumbled through the doorway.

"Nice," he continued, picking up a worn muffin as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cheerfully. "My name is Liling Spangler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubborn. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fullerton. Her cheek made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy mackerel. Please have a drink," he argued, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Zzzzz," she whined. "It was shortly after I came here to Fort Wayne that I met him. I was working as a football player. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Blossom. Oh, he seemed noble enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected demurely.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Alexander Orwell. He works at the saloon on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paintings."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the DeMille gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a painting in Fort Wayne 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 Wal-Mart when he sallied forth in and started to beg. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that obnoxious punk," she sobbed.

He handed her a crystal ball and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her jumper looked archaic. "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 belly button again. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would inspect my spoon if I didn't rest," she replied. "I said he's a choleric baboon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's choleric.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Orwell?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grandly, "did Mister Orwell ever talk about someone named Mark Chavez?

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

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's bud," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in Kalamazoo too long. I hope you can do something about Alexander soon."

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

"I can sprint to Kalamazoo as soon as I pack a flashlight, a hoodie, and my shovel."

"You'd better take a contract too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chuckled gingerly.

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

She rose from her seat and slipped ruefully out of the office. He stared clumsily after her.

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