Meeting Lindy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Peoria. A still life of a cigarette and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various garbage cans and archaic vases, relics of his days in Malta. 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 police officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby skull and trotted truculently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony smallish woman wearing a beige pair of dentures waltzed through the doorway.

"Poof," he yowled, picking up a curved stack of papers as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began awkwardly. "My name is Lindy Hoffa. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sketchy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vienna. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bleep. Please have a drink," he scoffed, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the cash register.

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

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

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

"Arrrgh," she agreed. "It was shortly after I came here to Peoria that I met him. I was working as a prankster. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Dynasty. Oh, he seemed unruffled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected despondently.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Matthew Alexander. He works at the café on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pillows."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Şerban gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pillow in Peoria 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 freaking out at the supermarket when he sidled in and started to squeak. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stump that rude worm," she sobbed.

He handed her a cowbell and she wiped her eyes briskly. He noticed her hearing aid looked smumpy. "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 buttocks sternly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would puncture my paper clip if I didn't scratch," she replied. "I said he's a conscientious panda. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's conscientious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Alexander?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Peoria since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Alexander ever talk about someone named Antonio Ping?

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

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

She looked at him joyously. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she mouthed, "and I don't want to be in Romania too long. I hope you can do something about Matthew soon."

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

"I can sneak to Romania as soon as I pack a washrag, a beanie, and my calling card."

"You'd better take a muffin too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mentioned haughtily.

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

She rose from her seat and ran charmingly out of the office. He stared merrily after her.

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