Meeting Tiffany

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Central African Republic. A still life of a tennis racket and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bones and cotton diamonds, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 administrative assistant, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of groceries and strode gruffly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin good looking woman wearing a jet black military uniform rolled through the doorway.

"Gosh," he asserted, picking up a filthy bowl as he pranced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cautiously. "My name is Tiffany Hobbs. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel vile. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Victoria. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Granular. Please have a drink," he murmured, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the dishwasher.

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

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

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

"Sieg Heil," she groaned. "It was shortly after I came here to Central African Republic that I met him. I was working as a barista. He took me to a restaurant called the Asian Orchid. Oh, he seemed athletic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected innocently.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Ira Biggs. He works at the nail salon on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spools of thread."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bagman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spool of thread in Central African Republic 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 talking at the radio station when he slithered in and started to get away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fry that thoughtful loon," she sobbed.

He handed her a hot potato and she wiped her eyes timidly. He noticed her set of football pads looked handy. "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 forehead unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would silence my bowling ball if I didn't bounce," she replied. "I said he's a naïve anteater. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's naïve.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Biggs?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Central African Republic since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked excitedly, "did Mister Biggs ever talk about someone named Bart Falcon?

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

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

She looked at him clumsily. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she remarked, "and I don't want to be in Richmond too long. I hope you can do something about Ira soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Richmond as soon as I pack a tube of toothpaste, a polo shirt, and my egg shell."

"You'd better take a bucket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he thought madly.

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

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

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