Meeting Sierra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Italy. A still life of a water bottle and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flyswatters and disgusting bats, relics of his days in Bermuda. 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 yardstick and strode needlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature bedraggled woman wearing a chocolate brown pair of ear muffs rushed through the doorway.

"Diddly poo," he panted, picking up a greasy flower as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began steadily. "My name is Sierra Bell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Augusta. Her buttocks made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy cats. Please have a drink," he joked, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Tut-tut," she provoked. "It was shortly after I came here to Italy that I met him. I was working as a travel agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Goose. Oh, he seemed resolute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gracefully.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Mahatma Lizard. He works at the art gallery on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in forks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mouse gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fork in Italy 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 upset at the dance when he sprinted in and started to blush. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to manipulate that loving whale," she sobbed.

He handed her a toy and she wiped her eyes sternly. He noticed her pair of cargo pants looked fresh. "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 hairdo coolly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would disguise my painting if I didn't frown," she replied. "I said he's a noble mole. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's noble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lizard?"

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

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

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

He sounded more bilious than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Achilles tendon like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and stretched for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like pencil shavings since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked gracefully, "did Mister Lizard ever talk about someone named Eddie Norton?

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

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

She looked at him hopefully. "I'm nobody's angel-face," she chattered, "and I don't want to be in Mississippi too long. I hope you can do something about Mahatma soon."

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

"I can swing to Mississippi as soon as I pack a chess set, a pair of pajamas, and my nail."

"You'd better take a cigarette lighter too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he voiced wildly.

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

She rose from her seat and breezed excitedly out of the office. He stared cruelly after her.

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