Meeting Lucia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Liechtenstein. A still life of an ingot of plutonium and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various houseplants and petite blankets, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 rodeo cowboy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby photograph and dashed boldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious gorgeous woman wearing a maroon jumpsuit sped through the doorway.

"Not so fast," he amended, picking up an archaic cane as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woefully. "My name is Lucia Gilson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel spunky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Washington. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Lord be praised. Please have a drink," he howled, handing her a cup of eggnog and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Stoked," she explained. "It was shortly after I came here to Liechtenstein that I met him. I was working as a court reporter. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Express. Oh, he seemed shifty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cruelly.

She stared into her cup of eggnog. "His name's Twigs Cheng. He works at the coffee shop on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Porter gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coin in Liechtenstein 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 talking at the ski slope when he reeled in and started to squint. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to remember that heavyset imp," she sobbed.

He handed her a calling card and she wiped her eyes coldly. He noticed her dunce cap looked frilly. "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 irritably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would yank my bowling ball if I didn't wince," she replied. "I said he's a bellicose wolverine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bellicose.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cheng?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gently, "did Mister Cheng ever talk about someone named Kenny Goossens?

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

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

She looked at him impatiently. "I'm nobody's nipkin," she accused, "and I don't want to be in Comoros too long. I hope you can do something about Twigs soon."

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

"I can barrel to Comoros as soon as I pack a doily, a poncho, and my teacup."

"You'd better take a flute too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he alleged carefully.

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

She rose from her seat and galloped impatiently out of the office. He stared sweetly after her.

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