Meeting Sandra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Tijuana. A still life of a snail and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cigarettes and musty brushes, relics of his days in Kosovo. 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 gemcutter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pot and waded urgently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby frail woman wearing a white pair of jackboots waltzed through the doorway.

"Far out, man," he breathed, picking up a charming backpack as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began neatly. "My name is Sandra Yang. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sober. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tempe. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eh. Please have a drink," he decided, handing her a gin sour and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Fudge," she muttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Tijuana that I met him. I was working as a clerk. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Gastropub. Oh, he seemed haggard enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected victoriously.

She stared into her gin sour. "His name's Ian Mainz. He works at the fortune teller shop on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Van Goghs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Quick gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Van Gogh in Tijuana 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 chanting at the poetry reading when he ambled in and started to sneeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mesmerize that bubbly slacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a paperclip and she wiped her eyes kindly. He noticed her blanket looked rigid. "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 calf despondently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would distort my piece of candy if I didn't adjust the clock," she replied. "I said he's a haughty cobra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's haughty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mainz?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Tijuana since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warmly, "did Mister Mainz ever talk about someone named Dirk Flores?

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

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

She looked at him later. "I'm nobody's noodle," she ranted, "and I don't want to be in Upper Mongolia too long. I hope you can do something about Ian soon."

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

"I can lope to Upper Mongolia as soon as I pack a clam, a gown, and my hacksaw."

"You'd better take a ruler too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asked softly.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted silently out of the office. He stared victoriously after her.

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