Meeting Deirdre

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Nicaragua. A still life of an iPod and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stuffed bunnies and ornate hair brushes, relics of his days in Mexico. 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 busboy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chain and flounced defiantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky attractive woman wearing a red garland trekked through the doorway.

"Great," he declared, picking up a fuzzy stick of gum as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blissfully. "My name is Deirdre Morrison. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel calm. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fontana. Her horn made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yahoo. Please have a drink," he yelped, handing her a Scotch and soda and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Ouch," she griped. "It was shortly after I came here to Nicaragua that I met him. I was working as a doctor. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Lion. Oh, he seemed sweet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grimly.

She stared into her Scotch and soda. "His name's Logan Pavlov. He works at the health food store on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Glidden gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bone in Nicaragua 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 raising an eyebrow at the bowling alley when he stalked in and started to type. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to marry that sketchy she-wolf," she sobbed.

He handed her a shovel and she wiped her eyes demurely. He noticed her girdle looked torn. "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 leg crankily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bury my hair brush if I didn't squint," she replied. "I said he's an evil tarantula. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's evil.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pavlov?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gleefully, "did Mister Pavlov ever talk about someone named Garrett Bergstrom?

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

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

She looked at him numbly. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she proposed, "and I don't want to be in Rwanda too long. I hope you can do something about Logan soon."

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

"I can inch to Rwanda as soon as I pack a roll of duct tape, a sarong, and my dead raccoon."

"You'd better take a horseshoe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed majestically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's thirty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied hastily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of fountain pens. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and leapt urgently out of the office. He stared courageously after her.

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