Meeting Vicki
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought fondly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling magnets door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Cape Verde. A still life of a doll and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various calling cards and papery spinning wheels, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 restaurant owner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag and lumbered quickly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a plump petite woman wearing a blue dunce cap jogged through the doorway.
"If only," he expressed, picking up a luxurious paper towel as he capered to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began gently. "My name is Vicki Tooker. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel childish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Budapest. Her cheek made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woohoo. Please have a drink," he thought, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the china cabinet.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she squawked, glancing at the belly button jewel he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied deftly.
"Jeez," she pleaded. "It was shortly after I came here to Cape Verde that I met him. I was working as a zoologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Dog. Oh, he seemed modest enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected properly.
She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's Lars Myers. He works at the hair salon on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in potatoes."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ortega gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a potato in Cape Verde 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 puckering at the spelling bee when he sped in and started to scratch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scare that cocky kook," she sobbed.
He handed her a baby doll and she wiped her eyes frantically. He noticed her toupee looked handy. "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 heel pitifully. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would whack my fingernail clipper if I didn't look smart," she replied. "I said he's a spindly camel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's spindly.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Myers?"
"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Cape Verde 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 Lars Myers is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more gallant than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his adrenal gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and played Duck Duck Goose for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like mountain air since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked stealthily, "did Mister Myers ever talk about someone named René Spence?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a clenched fist.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Ortega operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, sweetie-pie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice spa in Grand Rapids. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him immediately. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she sneered, "and I don't want to be in Grand Rapids too long. I hope you can do something about Lars soon."
"I'll do my best, dovey-poo. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can jog to Grand Rapids as soon as I pack a towel, a motorcycle helmet, and my church key."
"You'd better take a top too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vouched frenetically.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's twenty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied humbly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of barbells. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and whirled daintily out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.
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