Meeting Libby

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Scottsdale. A still life of a picture and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flyswatters and jagged paintbrushes, 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 hobo, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby snail and slumped briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe sprightly woman wearing a yellow nose ring rushed through the doorway.

"Crikey," he invited, picking up a rigid ingot of plutonium as he bounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began strictly. "My name is Libby Lange. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel garrulous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Winston-Salem. Her liver made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Man alive. Please have a drink," he piped up, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Yes," she shrieked. "It was shortly after I came here to Scottsdale that I met him. I was working as a film director. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Spoon. Oh, he seemed artistic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected deliberately.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Quinn Finney. He works at the burger joint on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stacks of papers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Roman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stack of papers in Scottsdale 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 pausing at the radio station when he zipped in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reassure that careful baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a tube of toothpaste and she wiped her eyes madly. He noticed her pair of Oxfords looked filthy. "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 heart roughly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would freeze my feather if I didn't dawdle," she replied. "I said he's a stern ape. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stern.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Finney?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Scottsdale since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blissfully, "did Mister Finney ever talk about someone named Kelly Ortmann?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him mysteriously. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she shouted, "and I don't want to be in Monaco too long. I hope you can do something about Quinn soon."

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

"I can scurry to Monaco as soon as I pack a telephone, a robe, and my curling iron."

"You'd better take a sack of potatoes too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled gracefully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied stealthily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cupcakes. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and straggled timidly out of the office. He stared lickety-split after her.

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