Meeting Leslie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Colorado. A still life of a campaign sign and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various shovels and plastic boxes of Kleenex, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 set designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby protest sign and stormed woefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious graceful woman wearing a sparkly bedsheet bolted through the doorway.

"Aaah," he blurted, picking up a luxurious fork as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began proudly. "My name is Leslie Flanagan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel enraged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Stockholm. Her spleen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Chirp. Please have a drink," he sniveled, handing her a Bloody Mary and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"Touché," she snarled. "It was shortly after I came here to Colorado that I met him. I was working as an oboist. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Gourmet. Oh, he seemed enraged enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected clumsily.

She stared into her Bloody Mary. "His name's Tom Norton. He works at the storage unit on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in boxes of Kleenex."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cosak gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a box of Kleenex in Colorado 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 getting along at the saloon when he danced in and started to blow up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to outrun that shifty moron," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack of potatoes and she wiped her eyes gingerly. He noticed her pair of Bermuda shorts looked coarse. "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 ego haughtily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ignore my clarinet if I didn't gesticulate," she replied. "I said he's an exuberant grizzly bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's exuberant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Norton?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Colorado since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tensely, "did Mister Norton ever talk about someone named Billy Bob Seaman?

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

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

She looked at him hysterically. "I'm nobody's hon," she warbled, "and I don't want to be in a ghetto too long. I hope you can do something about Tom soon."

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

"I can scamper to a ghetto as soon as I pack a candy bar, a hair net, and my screwdriver."

"You'd better take an African violet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chanted testily.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled nervously out of the office. He stared fervently after her.

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