Meeting Roxanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Miami. A still life of a can of shaving cream and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various oranges and waxy business cards, relics of his days in the Czech Republic. 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 air traffic controller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of groceries and trekked neatly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious cute woman wearing a crimson gun belt danced through the doorway.

"Blah," he growled, picking up a golden pair of scissors as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began pityingly. "My name is Roxanne Sims. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cocky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bangkok. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hurray. Please have a drink," he clarified, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"Shiver me timbers," she screeched. "It was shortly after I came here to Miami that I met him. I was working as a pediatrician. He took me to a restaurant called Exotic Terrace. Oh, he seemed decent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courageously.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Chuck Popp. He works at the clothing store on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bicycles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Castro gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bicycle in Miami 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 throwing up at the basement when he swaggered in and started to wink. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bore that absent-minded stumblebum," she sobbed.

He handed her an Egyptian mummy and she wiped her eyes nicely. He noticed her gorilla suit looked electronic. "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 funny bone firmly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cover my sack if I didn't dawdle," she replied. "I said he's an artistic yeti. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's artistic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Popp?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked hopelessly, "did Mister Popp ever talk about someone named Randy Plunkett?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Castro 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 box in Andorra. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him proudly. "I'm nobody's noodle," she said, "and I don't want to be in Andorra too long. I hope you can do something about Chuck soon."

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

"I can sprint to Andorra as soon as I pack a mop, a bowler hat, and my pinwheel."

"You'd better take a trash can too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he purred automatically.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered stealthily out of the office. He stared frenetically after her.

Next Chapter