Meeting Candi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Charlotte. A still life of a candy cane and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various books and fabulous mousetraps, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 rodeo clown, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fire hose and swung fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive cute woman wearing a lime-green false moustache hobbled through the doorway.

"Ten-four," he agreed, picking up a gigantic toilet seat as he lurched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lamely. "My name is Candi Noonan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel prissy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Charlotte. Her front tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yoohoo. Please have a drink," he judged, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Peachy-keen," she divulged. "It was shortly after I came here to Charlotte that I met him. I was working as a loan officer. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Panda. Oh, he seemed eccentric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Babyface Ramirez. He works at the video arcade on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cupcakes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Greer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cupcake in Charlotte 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 playing Farmer in the Dell at the library when he galumphed in and started to preach. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to overlook that fuzzy scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a bat and she wiped her eyes doubtfully. He noticed her pair of cargo pants looked crude. "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 hip blissfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would extinguish my Helmholz resonator if I didn't dither," she replied. "I said he's a sassy Norway rat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ramirez?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Charlotte since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked miserably, "did Mister Ramirez ever talk about someone named Melvin Seymour?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Greer operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, dear heart, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice chateau in Santa Fe. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him carelessly. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she queried, "and I don't want to be in Santa Fe too long. I hope you can do something about Babyface soon."

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

"I can stagger to Santa Fe as soon as I pack a pumpkin, a floppy hat, and my gun."

"You'd better take a chain too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he appealed lightly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred fifty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied grudgingly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of diagrams. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and ambled stupidly out of the office. He stared shakily after her.

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