Meeting Lindsey

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Illinois. A still life of a pair of dice and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ping-pong paddles and clean cigarette lighters, relics of his days in Japan. 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 dentist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby primrose and traipsed diligently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby bedraggled woman wearing a camouflage camisole careened through the doorway.

"Lo and behold," he groaned, picking up a coarse lollipop as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began flightily. "My name is Lindsey Butterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shiftless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Stockholm. Her gut made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hurray. Please have a drink," he analyzed, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Can it," she stated. "It was shortly after I came here to Illinois that I met him. I was working as an elementary school teacher. He took me to a restaurant called Fabulous Pasta Bar. Oh, he seemed daring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unabashedly.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Wes Swaanhof. He works at the boutique on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Slade gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stone in Illinois 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 grunting at the bagel shop when he rolled in and started to wobble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kick that distressed bumpkin," she sobbed.

He handed her a vacuum cleaner and she wiped her eyes truculently. He noticed her gas mask looked slimy. "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 eyelid surreptitiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lynch my dictionary if I didn't grimace," she replied. "I said he's a sweet donkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sweet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Swaanhof?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Illinois since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked proudly, "did Mister Swaanhof ever talk about someone named Eldon Gibson?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Slade operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, angel-face, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice monastery in Croatia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him unexpectedly. "I'm nobody's angel-face," she concluded, "and I don't want to be in Croatia too long. I hope you can do something about Wes soon."

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

"I can crawl to Croatia as soon as I pack a cork, a shawl, and my deck of cards."

"You'd better take a baseball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he intimated curiously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred sixty dollars as a retainer," she replied dolorously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pairs of binoculars. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and lumbered recklessly out of the office. He stared diligently after her.

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