Meeting Lindsey

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Zambia. A still life of a hat and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various billiard balls and fluffy diaries, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 cellist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby football and stalked sternly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky youthful woman wearing a teal pair of shoes scooted through the doorway.

"Crud," he lamented, picking up a polished basketball as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began warmly. "My name is Lindsey Ratha. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel passionate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Naperville. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woof. Please have a drink," he agreed, handing her a gimlet and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Eeshk," she recited. "It was shortly after I came here to Zambia that I met him. I was working as an Uber driver. He took me to a restaurant called Berlin Taqueria. Oh, he seemed pigeon-toed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vacantly.

She stared into her gimlet. "His name's Fuzz Pickett. He works at the deli on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sticks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shelby gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stick in Zambia 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 at the Wal-Mart when he cantered in and started to play Duck Duck Goose. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to love that wily blockhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a toothbrush and she wiped her eyes noisily. He noticed her pair of dentures looked hollow. "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 nostril energetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would balance my rope if I didn't snort," she replied. "I said he's a queer aardvark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's queer.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pickett?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Zambia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked confidently, "did Mister Pickett ever talk about someone named Jimmy Quinlan?

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

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

She looked at him carefully. "I'm nobody's queenie," she cackled, "and I don't want to be in Florida too long. I hope you can do something about Fuzz soon."

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

"I can stagger to Florida as soon as I pack a stick, a pair of boxer shorts, and my Rubik's cube."

"You'd better take a tablet computer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hinted kindly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode wryly out of the office. He stared threateningly after her.

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