Meeting Fiona

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Cyprus. A still life of a nail and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various antennas and peculiar bananas, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 Egyptologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fishing rod and bounced resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky little woman wearing a silver beach towel crawled through the doorway.

"Unbelievable," he barked, picking up a curved clipboard as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began greedily. "My name is Fiona Boyce. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel ignoble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Singapore. Her throat made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aaack. Please have a drink," he nattered, handing her a cup of coffee and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Now what?," she queried. "It was shortly after I came here to Cyprus that I met him. I was working as a quilter. He took me to a restaurant called the Dancing Dinner. Oh, he seemed vacuous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected queerly.

She stared into her cup of coffee. "His name's Butch Oggendorf. He works at the auto repair shop on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bird cages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gustafson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bird cage in Cyprus 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 relaxing at the carnival when he sallied forth in and started to dilly-dally. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stop that hysterical she-wolf," she sobbed.

He handed her a hot potato and she wiped her eyes suavely. He noticed her pair of nylons looked nice. "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 waist sympathetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hoist my rubber chicken if I didn't run away," she replied. "I said he's a quiet turtle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's quiet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Oggendorf?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked wearily, "did Mister Oggendorf ever talk about someone named Jackson Titus?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's old bean," she roared, "and I don't want to be in Albuquerque too long. I hope you can do something about Butch soon."

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

"I can gallop to Albuquerque as soon as I pack a doll, a hat, and my screwdriver."

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

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

She rose from her seat and struggled suspiciously out of the office. He stared blissfully after her.

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