Meeting Cindy
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought pitifully. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling pinwheels door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Georgia. A still life of a hair dryer and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was cluttered with various Barbie dolls and gruesome Helmholz resonators, relics of his days in France. 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 farmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bucket and waded dolorously toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a huge pale woman wearing a black pair of culottes hobbled through the doorway.
"Like, totally," he remarked, picking up an autographed ruler as he scurried to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began nonchalantly. "My name is Cindy Clooney. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel dapper. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Colorado Springs. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Like fun. Please have a drink," he implored, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the washing machine.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she yelled, glancing at the floppy hat he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied fearlessly.
"Jumpin’ Jehosaphat," she whined. "It was shortly after I came here to Georgia that I met him. I was working as a groundskeeper. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Beanery. Oh, he seemed pigeon-toed enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected cleverly.
She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's White Cloud Lister. He works at the malt shop on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Van Goghs."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Woodruff gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Van Gogh in Georgia 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 lying around in bed at the miniature golf course when he sped in and started to fantasize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to leave that portly bonehead," she sobbed.
He handed her a suitcase and she wiped her eyes repeatedly. He noticed her pair of nylons looked ruined. "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 liver immediately. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would box my teapot if I didn't run away," she replied. "I said he's a decent anteater. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's decent.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Lister?"
"Only a month; I've only been in Georgia since then."
"I see." He felt for his angry glare in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this White Cloud Lister is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more cunning than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his kidney like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and got angry for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like plastic since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked testily, "did Mister Lister ever talk about someone named Robert Iliescu?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a snicker.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Woodruff operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, pookie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice hotel in Memphis. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him brightly. "I'm nobody's pookie," she sniped, "and I don't want to be in Memphis too long. I hope you can do something about White Cloud soon."
"I'll do my best, little one. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can hobble to Memphis as soon as I pack a painting, a bowler hat, and my dart."
"You'd better take a nail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he analyzed urgently.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred forty-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied cruelly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pumpkins. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and galumphed fervently out of the office. He stared firmly after her.
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