Meeting Amanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Mali. A still life of a barrel organ and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hacksaws and petite coupons, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 ironing board and swung later toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious angelic woman wearing a crimson pair of UGGs lumbered through the doorway.

"You're kidding," he admitted, picking up a well worn crayon as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lickety-split. "My name is Amanda Lord. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel muscular. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Salt Lake City. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yep. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Lord be praised," she uttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Mali that I met him. I was working as a horse trainer. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Mist. Oh, he seemed considerate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected queerly.

She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's Mark Ortmann. He works at the deli on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed bunnies."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dunn gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed bunny in Mali 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 getting rigid at the spelling bee when he zipped in and started to groan. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to text that intrepid kook," she sobbed.

He handed her an arrowhead and she wiped her eyes gently. He noticed her stovepipe hat looked grubby. "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 adrenal gland crossly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would honor my bottle of perfume if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a maniacal musk-ox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's maniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ortmann?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Mali since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lightly, "did Mister Ortmann ever talk about someone named Jordan Harper?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Dunn 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 castle in St. Louis. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him craftily. "I'm nobody's bunny," she prattled, "and I don't want to be in St. Louis too long. I hope you can do something about Mark soon."

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

"I can go to St. Louis as soon as I pack a toilet seat, a babushka, and my coloring book."

"You'd better take a pizza too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he murmured shyly.

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

She rose from her seat and walked calmly out of the office. He stared smoothly after her.

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