Meeting Anne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in France. A still life of a paper clip and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pairs of scissors and crisp bags of potato chips, relics of his days in France. 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 blacksmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clothespin and marched fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky suave woman wearing a carrot-orange cat suit bolted through the doorway.

"Man alive," he implored, picking up an expensive mousetrap as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sympathetically. "My name is Anne Werner. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel lanky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tripoli. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Huzzah. Please have a drink," he murmured, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the desk.

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

"This is difficult for me," she rationalized, 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 woodenly.

"Great balls of fire," she indicated. "It was shortly after I came here to France that I met him. I was working as a hobo. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze Terrace. Oh, he seemed self-confident enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected frenetically.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Erwin Lancaster. He works at the pet shop on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Katz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a towel in France 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 growling at the taco shop when he rolled in and started to giggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to train that brave knave," she sobbed.

He handed her a thumb drive and she wiped her eyes deftly. He noticed her overcoat looked hideous. "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 fingernail reluctantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would gold plate my hot potato if I didn't yawn," she replied. "I said he's a mournful cow. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mournful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lancaster?"

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

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

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

He sounded more nervous 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 got rigid for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fresh-baked bread since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked calmly, "did Mister Lancaster ever talk about someone named Devin Lawler?

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

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

She looked at him silently. "I'm nobody's cutie," she expressed, "and I don't want to be in Washington too long. I hope you can do something about Erwin soon."

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

"I can swing to Washington as soon as I pack a broom, a pair of boxing gloves, and my ironing board."

"You'd better take a pop bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he shuddered menacingly.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered needlessly out of the office. He stared diligently after her.

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