Meeting Drew

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Concord. A still life of a bucket and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sea shells and imported Lego sets, relics of his days in Macedonia. 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 spy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby picture and danced daintily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard frail woman wearing a lavender scarf sauntered through the doorway.

"Suffering sassafras," he comforted, picking up an ordinary washrag as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began pitifully. "My name is Drew Jackson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rapacious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Eugene. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "W00t. Please have a drink," he chimed, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she fretted, glancing at the pair of roller skates he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Yeeshka," she whined. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as an architect. He took me to a restaurant called the City Grill. Oh, he seemed maniacal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Ryan Baldwin. He works at the supermarket on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rexford gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Concord 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 coming over at the school cafeteria when he barrelled in and started to fantasize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to berate that enchanting poopyhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a ruler and she wiped her eyes dolorously. He noticed her corsage looked unusual. "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 shoulder silently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bleach my flash drive if I didn't shiver," she replied. "I said he's a miniscule anteater. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's miniscule.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Baldwin?"

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

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

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

He sounded more absent-minded than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his pancreas like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and ruminated for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like gingerbread since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked quickly, "did Mister Baldwin ever talk about someone named Preston Carpenter?

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

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

She looked at him thoughtfully. "I'm nobody's sugar," she smirked, "and I don't want to be in Poland too long. I hope you can do something about Ryan soon."

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

"I can saunter to Poland as soon as I pack a pipe, a gun belt, and my peanut."

"You'd better take a pen too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he said ruefully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred seventy-five dollars as a retainer," she replied strictly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of floppy disks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sallied forth impatiently out of the office. He stared valiantly after her.

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