Meeting Lorie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Zambia. A still life of a radio and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various egg shells and hand-carved pairs of pliers, relics of his days in Bulgaria. 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 baton salesman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby avocado and clambered slowly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard bedraggled woman wearing a lavender coat of mail hopped through the doorway.

"Huh," he squealed, picking up a brittle yardstick as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began trustingly. "My name is Lorie Gifford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cantankerous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Fe. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokes. Please have a drink," he sputtered, handing her a cup of coffee and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Kapow," she quavered. "It was shortly after I came here to Zambia that I met him. I was working as a gambler. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Bar & Grill. Oh, he seemed annoying enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected irritably.

She stared into her cup of coffee. "His name's Ethan Carver. He works at the bowling alley on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hip flasks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Whitefoot gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hip flask in Zambia 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 kneeling at the recycling bin when he leapt in and started to wander. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to correct that presumptuous dipstick," she sobbed.

He handed her a Barbie doll and she wiped her eyes excitedly. He noticed her gas mask looked smelly. "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 grandly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unwrap my piece of chalk if I didn't gesticulate," she replied. "I said he's a fearless mare. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fearless.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Carver?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Zambia since then."

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

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

He sounded more furry 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 cheered for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like hairspray since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked neatly, "did Mister Carver ever talk about someone named Abel Robinson?

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

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

She looked at him sheepishly. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she declared, "and I don't want to be in Belgium too long. I hope you can do something about Ethan soon."

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

"I can speed to Belgium as soon as I pack a gun, a hood, and my yardstick."

"You'd better take a pom-pom too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stated intensely.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed cunningly out of the office. He stared hungrily after her.

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