Meeting Shawna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Liverpool. A still life of a bullet and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tickets and fluffy stopwatches, relics of his days in Venezuela. 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 jeweler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird feeder and slunk glibly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight albino woman wearing a magenta pair of shoes galloped through the doorway.

"Thanks for nothing," he bawled, picking up a petite cigarette lighter as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hysterically. "My name is Shawna Lister. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel self-confident. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Edinburgh. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eeshk. Please have a drink," he snarled, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Yep," she squawked. "It was shortly after I came here to Liverpool that I met him. I was working as a chief of police. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Food Factory. Oh, he seemed moody enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected thoughtfully.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Armand Cutler. He works at the storage unit on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in carrots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Melville gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a carrot in Liverpool 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 dithering at the city park when he cantered in and started to fidget. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to try to control that sarcastic wannabe," she sobbed.

He handed her a peach and she wiped her eyes frantically. He noticed her 'I'm with Stupid' shirt looked striking. "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 midriff unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would scrub my apple if I didn't growl," she replied. "I said he's a sleepy computer. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sleepy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cutler?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Liverpool since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked urgently, "did Mister Cutler ever talk about someone named Morton Charles?

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

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

She looked at him tenderly. "I'm nobody's swizzle," she warbled, "and I don't want to be in Mauritania too long. I hope you can do something about Armand soon."

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

"I can lurch to Mauritania as soon as I pack a teddy bear, a gunny sack, and my houseplant."

"You'd better take a crayon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he insisted dolefully.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped noisily out of the office. He stared jokingly after her.

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