Meeting Leah
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought needlessly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling urns door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Mozambique. A still life of a can of beans and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various combs and flexible wrenches, relics of his days in Finland. 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 house spouse, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clipboard and reeled pityingly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a huge delicate woman wearing a blue pair of sandals hopped through the doorway.
"Gosh darn," he sneered, picking up a hideous chamber pot as he paraded to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began briskly. "My name is Leah McBride. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel queer. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vancouver. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Lordy. Please have a drink," he expressed, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the four-poster bed.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she emphasized, glancing at the set of scrubs he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied grimly.
"Say what," she offered. "It was shortly after I came here to Mozambique that I met him. I was working as a correctional officer. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Fork. Oh, he seemed carefree enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected pitifully.
She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Joe Shakewell. He works at the café on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ashtrays."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wibbles gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ashtray in Mozambique 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 hanging around at the disco when he scurried in and started to chatter. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to blink at that queer ding dong," she sobbed.
He handed her a pair of fuzzy dice and she wiped her eyes arrogantly. He noticed her G-string looked frilly. "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 vein valiantly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would reinforce my deck of cards if I didn't whistle," she replied. "I said he's a moody phantom. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moody.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Shakewell?"
"Only a minute; I've only been in Mozambique since then."
"I see." He felt for his ukulele in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Joe Shakewell is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more sober 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 dreamed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like oregano since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked cheerfully, "did Mister Shakewell ever talk about someone named Dick Corialis?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a gurgle.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Wibbles operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, sweetie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice manor house in Italy. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him awkwardly. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she acknowledged, "and I don't want to be in Italy too long. I hope you can do something about Joe soon."
"I'll do my best, hot stuff. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can bolt to Italy as soon as I pack a Bunsen burner, a beehive, and my duffel bag."
"You'd better take a sack of potatoes too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mused effortlessly.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's sixty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied deliberately. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bags of groceries. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and jumped roughly out of the office. He stared blindly after her.
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