Meeting Bianca

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

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

The office was cluttered with various pacifiers and rare trash cans, relics of his days in Malta. 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 film producer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stopwatch and waddled lickety-split toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky delicate woman wearing a beige blouse sallied forth through the doorway.

"Not on your life," he reminded, picking up a large campaign sign as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began noisily. "My name is Bianca Morrissey. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hollywood. Her big toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm outta here. Please have a drink," he blathered, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the wardrobe.

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

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

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

"Ah," she worried. "It was shortly after I came here to Brazil that I met him. I was working as a fortune teller. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed careful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected humbly.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's LaDue Cradduck. He works at the video arcade on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cupcakes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Peters gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cupcake in Brazil 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 backing up at the juice shop when he capered in and started to puff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lie to that apoplectic scurvy dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of soup and she wiped her eyes ferociously. He noticed her skirt looked slimy. "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 tongue innocently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bathe my broom if I didn't cringe," she replied. "I said he's a stubby boar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stubby.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cradduck?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Brazil since then."

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

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

He sounded more impish than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his tail like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and seethed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Chanel No. 5 since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked oddly, "did Mister Cradduck ever talk about someone named Chad Ryan?

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

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

She looked at him repeatedly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she joked, "and I don't want to be in Katmandu too long. I hope you can do something about LaDue soon."

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

"I can sidle to Katmandu as soon as I pack a piggy bank, a miniskirt, and my bullet."

"You'd better take a cracker too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he judged perkily.

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

She rose from her seat and dove roughly out of the office. He stared offhandedly after her.

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