Meeting Latrina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Anaheim. A still life of a photograph and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various antennas and peculiar pots, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 makeup artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cane and slithered silently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight adorable woman wearing a lime-green pair of UGGs sauntered through the doorway.

"Mommy," he accused, picking up a dirty dictionary as he stalked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began daintily. "My name is Latrina Ireland. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel high-strung. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Warren. Her eyelash made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh my word. Please have a drink," he accused, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Bless my britches," she announced. "It was shortly after I came here to Anaheim that I met him. I was working as a barber. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed pigeon-toed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected miserably.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Dillon Mann. He works at the music store on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rocks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gong gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rock in Anaheim 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 glowering at the tanning salon when he straggled 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 kick that atrocious ninnyhammer," she sobbed.

He handed her a joint and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her belt buckle looked dusty. "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 Achilles tendon silently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grab my key ring if I didn't snuffle," she replied. "I said he's a cunning jackal. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cunning.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mann?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Anaheim since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked wildly, "did Mister Mann ever talk about someone named Robert Carver?

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

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

She looked at him languidly. "I'm nobody's Banana Cakes," she murmured, "and I don't want to be in Philadelphia too long. I hope you can do something about Dillon soon."

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

"I can stride to Philadelphia as soon as I pack a banana, a pair of khakis, and my cigarette lighter."

"You'd better take a Big Gulp too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded automatically.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered frantically out of the office. He stared oddly after her.

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