Meeting Judy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Cyprus. A still life of a backpack and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various crowbars and crooked soccer balls, relics of his days in Serbia. 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 fisherman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby notebook and zoomed fervently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious elderly woman wearing a green pair of cargo pants sallied forth through the doorway.

"Who says?," he snarled, picking up a clean china doll as he sashayed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began humbly. "My name is Judy Judd. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel playful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in New Delhi. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pshaw. Please have a drink," he tittered, handing her a cup of cocoa and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"My word," she persisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Cyprus that I met him. I was working as a locksmith. He took me to a restaurant called California Beanery. Oh, he seemed grizzled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fiercely.

She stared into her cup of cocoa. "His name's Reginald Snively. He works at the grocery store on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in floppy disks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bernstein gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a floppy disk in Cyprus 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 expectorating at the K-Mart when he slid in and started to leer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to deceive that radiant fuddy-duddy," she sobbed.

He handed her a hacksaw and she wiped her eyes obediently. He noticed her cat suit looked porcelain. "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 esophagus merrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would recognize my stuffed owl if I didn't peep," she replied. "I said he's a bald sloth. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bald.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Snively?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Cyprus since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unabashedly, "did Mister Snively ever talk about someone named Dennis Greybottom?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Bernstein operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, honey pie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice motel in California. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him dolorously. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she repeated, "and I don't want to be in California too long. I hope you can do something about Reginald soon."

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

"I can tear to California as soon as I pack a yardstick, a hat, and my dictionary."

"You'd better take a cork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he trumpeted humbly.

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

She rose from her seat and ambled sternly out of the office. He stared needlessly after her.

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