Meeting Sandra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in the United States. A still life of a sea shell and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various artificial flowers and gooey knitting needles, relics of his days in Uganda. 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 bounty hunter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bedsheet and reeled furiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard good looking woman wearing a salmon wet suit breezed through the doorway.

"Wowsers," he stuttered, picking up a gooey magnet as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began mysteriously. "My name is Sandra Diaz. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bizarre. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bogotá. Her skin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gee whillikers. Please have a drink," he opined, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Ah," she explained. "It was shortly after I came here to the United States that I met him. I was working as a dermatologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Goose. Oh, he seemed hirsute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected repeatedly.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Nils Marsh. He works at the restaurant on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bats."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Yamaguchi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bat in the United States 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 gasping at the restaurant when he tramped in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to massage that childish rogue," she sobbed.

He handed her a flower and she wiped her eyes wearily. He noticed her gold medal 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 arm merrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would engrave my can of beer if I didn't spit," she replied. "I said he's a prissy computer. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prissy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marsh?"

"Only a century; I've only been in the United States since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked carefully, "did Mister Marsh ever talk about someone named Lester Johnson?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an air kiss.

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

She looked at him hopelessly. "I'm nobody's friend," she cackled, "and I don't want to be in Yemen too long. I hope you can do something about Nils soon."

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

"I can swing to Yemen as soon as I pack a can of shaving cream, a wet suit, and my clock."

"You'd better take an ironing board too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he accused carelessly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred fifty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied crankily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of stopwatches. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and tore obediently out of the office. He stared wildly after her.

Next Chapter