Meeting Andrea

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Angola. A still life of a mop and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various oranges and filthy Happy Meals, relics of his days in Mexico. 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 locksmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby jar of olives and rushed demurely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied nervous woman wearing a salmon bedsheet zoomed through the doorway.

"Verily," he rationalized, picking up a stolen rag as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began thoughtfully. "My name is Andrea Binkley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel excitable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Muskogee. Her lip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Buzzards. Please have a drink," he requested, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the chest of drawers.

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

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

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

"Oh dear," she chortled. "It was shortly after I came here to Angola that I met him. I was working as a soldier. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Cloud. Oh, he seemed decent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grimly.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Dorian Tillerman. He works at the flower shop on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Barbie dolls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stoker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Barbie doll in Angola 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 creeping at the health club when he hopped in and started to sit still. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to challenge that naïve peabrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a bat and she wiped her eyes carefully. He noticed her class ring looked bulky. "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 beard daintily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reposition my bedpan if I didn't squeak," she replied. "I said he's an energetic ladybug. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's energetic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tillerman?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Angola since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked openly, "did Mister Tillerman ever talk about someone named Jake Gorman?

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

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

She looked at him ferociously. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she mouthed, "and I don't want to be in Anaheim too long. I hope you can do something about Dorian soon."

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

"I can jog to Anaheim as soon as I pack a bird feeder, a ponytail, and my ironing board."

"You'd better take a saw too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he decided crazily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred ninety-three dollars as a retainer," she replied thoughtfully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of comic books. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and paraded carefully out of the office. He stared urgently after her.

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