Meeting Sharice

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Stockton. A still life of a Happy Meal and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bags of groceries and important roses, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 system administrator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pearl and tumbled curiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely Asian woman wearing a salmon baseball cap stormed through the doorway.

"Nonsense," he appealed, picking up a rigid floppy disk as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began deliberately. "My name is Sharice Minturn. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel furry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Escondido. Her spinal cord made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My gosh. Please have a drink," he shuddered, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Yo ho ho," she worried. "It was shortly after I came here to Stockton that I met him. I was working as a messenger. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Butcher Block. Oh, he seemed repulsive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected violently.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Cecil Ryan. He works at the tattoo parlor on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stacks of papers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Irvin gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stack of papers in Stockton 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 frowning at the garden when he cantered in and started to peep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confuse that cocky pighead," she sobbed.

He handed her a pumpkin and she wiped her eyes mysteriously. He noticed her tunic looked clean. "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 vein uselessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hide my coat check ticket if I didn't yelp," she replied. "I said he's a resolute Dalmatian. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's resolute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ryan?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked solemnly, "did Mister Ryan ever talk about someone named Thaddeus Mancini?

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

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

She looked at him obediently. "I'm nobody's angel," she jeered, "and I don't want to be in Zanzibar too long. I hope you can do something about Cecil soon."

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

"I can pad to Zanzibar as soon as I pack a coconut, a pair of heels, and my pink flamingo."

"You'd better take a picture too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he observed proudly.

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

She rose from her seat and hopped arrogantly out of the office. He stared sleepily after her.

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