Meeting Lauren

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Wisconsin. A still life of a skull and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various purses and autographed maps, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 physicist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby plaque and sneaked brashly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny tan woman wearing a burgundy blouse hobbled through the doorway.

"My gosh," he simpered, picking up a gross dollhouse as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dubiously. "My name is Lauren Bruce. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel irate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cambridge. Her liver made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cripes. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Scurvy dog," she giggled. "It was shortly after I came here to Wisconsin that I met him. I was working as a bookkeeper. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Express. Oh, he seemed angry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected craftily.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Edward Bruno. He works at the hair salon on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hopkins gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pen in Wisconsin 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 frazzled at the ski slope when he flew in and started to howl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to snuggle with that cruel troublemaker," she sobbed.

He handed her a dart and she wiped her eyes gratefully. He noticed her flour sack looked gaudy. "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 midriff sternly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stabilize my stopwatch if I didn't fulminate," she replied. "I said he's an arrogant unicorn. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's arrogant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bruno?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Wisconsin since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister Bruno ever talk about someone named Fuzz Samaniego?

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

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

She looked at him nervously. "I'm nobody's dovey-poo," she wept, "and I don't want to be in Niger too long. I hope you can do something about Edward soon."

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

"I can prance to Niger as soon as I pack a curling iron, an overcoat, and my bedpan."

"You'd better take a billfold too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he demanded lamely.

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

She rose from her seat and crept suavely out of the office. He stared curiously after her.

Next Chapter