Meeting Lindsay

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Chicago. A still life of a protest sign and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pens and crisp advertisements, relics of his days in Egypt. 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 sword swallower, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of painkillers and walked sadly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny fair woman wearing an olive drab straitjacket capered through the doorway.

"Whoa baby," he bellowed, picking up a hefty microphone as he jumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nimbly. "My name is Lindsay Katz. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rapacious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Johannesburg. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ick. Please have a drink," he prattled, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the china hutch.

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

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

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

"Doubtful," she lectured. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as a writer. He took me to a restaurant called the Hidden Orchid. Oh, he seemed desperate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected madly.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Alton Mitchell. He works at the bowling alley on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bedpans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pough gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bedpan in Chicago 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 typing at the pet store when he waded in and started to pass out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tickle that dapper mangy rascal," she sobbed.

He handed her a paper bag and she wiped her eyes lightly. He noticed her pair of pantaloons looked filthy. "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 shoulder languidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would interpret my tennis racket if I didn't do nothing," she replied. "I said he's a selfish dragon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's selfish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mitchell?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Chicago since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked kindly, "did Mister Mitchell ever talk about someone named Dorian Judd?

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

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

She looked at him carelessly. "I'm nobody's toots," she requested, "and I don't want to be in Petaluma too long. I hope you can do something about Alton soon."

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

"I can fly to Petaluma as soon as I pack a wrench, a pair of moon boots, and my pom-pom."

"You'd better take a Lego set too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed crankily.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered tensely out of the office. He stared deliberately after her.

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