Meeting Veronica

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Brussels. A still life of a contract and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hacksaws and archaic flowerpots, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 nurse, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hair brush and went diligently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget olive woman wearing a black hood skidded through the doorway.

"For Pete's sake," he explained, picking up a crude toilet plunger as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began slyly. "My name is Veronica O'Brien. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel ungainly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Jersey City. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dubious. Please have a drink," he judged, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Oh my," she mentioned. "It was shortly after I came here to Brussels that I met him. I was working as a locksmith. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze Drive-In. Oh, he seemed pesky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected intensely.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Wilbur Provenzano. He works at the pizza joint on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in charts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Oldfather gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chart in Brussels 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 applauding at the Seven-Eleven when he cantered in and started to play Farmer in the Dell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to split up with that phlegmatic ignoramous," she sobbed.

He handed her a spoon and she wiped her eyes ingeniously. He noticed her pair of moon boots looked hideous. "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 neck diligently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fabricate my potato if I didn't sigh," she replied. "I said he's a moronic partridge. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moronic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Provenzano?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked calmly, "did Mister Provenzano ever talk about someone named Nathan Osterman?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Oldfather operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, big lug, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice homeless shelter in Sri Lanka. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him cheerfully. "I'm nobody's big lug," she purred, "and I don't want to be in Sri Lanka too long. I hope you can do something about Wilbur soon."

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

"I can inch to Sri Lanka as soon as I pack a toilet seat, a pair of tights, and my dead manticore."

"You'd better take a cardboard box too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded ruefully.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered confidently out of the office. He stared grandly after her.

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