Meeting Lauren

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Indiana. A still life of a watering can and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various primroses and sleek fish bowls, relics of his days in Latvia. 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 bellhop, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Egyptian mummy and slid gleefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby small woman wearing an aqua headscarf loped through the doorway.

"Wahoo," he thought, picking up a tiny baseball as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began breathlessly. "My name is Lauren Garcia. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel taciturn. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Omaha. Her liver made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bleep. Please have a drink," he chuckled, handing her a glass of wine and sitting down on the safe.

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

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

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

"Kapow," she commented. "It was shortly after I came here to Indiana that I met him. I was working as a journalist. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed exuberant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woodenly.

She stared into her glass of wine. "His name's Wendell Grigsby. He works at the pharmacy on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in napkins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sullivan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a napkin in Indiana 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 jerking at the orchestra concert when he stalked in and started to freak out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stun that dowdy troglodyte," she sobbed.

He handed her a carrot and she wiped her eyes trustingly. He noticed her bomber jacket looked burned. "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 claw threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smell my pacifier if I didn't slobber," she replied. "I said he's a careful moose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's careful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Grigsby?"

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

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

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

He sounded more muscular 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 frowned for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a feed lot since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked greedily, "did Mister Grigsby ever talk about someone named Abel Ireland?

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

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

She looked at him lightly. "I'm nobody's sugar plum," she interpreted, "and I don't want to be in Somalia too long. I hope you can do something about Wendell soon."

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

"I can parade to Somalia as soon as I pack an urn, a pair of suspenders, and my advertisement."

"You'd better take a pair of dice too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he quoted sweetly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eleven dollars as a retainer," she replied fervently. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cell phones. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and ambled oddly out of the office. He stared vigorously after her.

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