Meeting Alice

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Atlanta. A still life of a pipe and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various baseball bats and dusty computers, relics of his days in Myanmar. 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 bicycle messenger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby brush and swung perkily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small attractive woman wearing a striped pair of shin guards breezed through the doorway.

"Shazam," he burbled, picking up an excellent diary as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began oddly. "My name is Alice Sitzman. 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 Brasilia. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yoohoo. Please have a drink," he disputed, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the floor.

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

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

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

"Yikes," she wondered. "It was shortly after I came here to Atlanta that I met him. I was working as a professor. He took me to a restaurant called the Stone Deli. Oh, he seemed gargantuan enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fearfully.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's Ronnie Zmarzly. He works at the bus station on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in primroses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McBride gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a primrose in Atlanta 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 puckering at the mall when he flounced in and started to pause. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pinch that presumptuous kook," she sobbed.

He handed her a saw and she wiped her eyes sourly. He noticed her bedsheet looked modern. "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 tongue sweetly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would curl my cigarette lighter if I didn't hang around," she replied. "I said he's a hirsute tsetse fly. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hirsute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zmarzly?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked surreptitiously, "did Mister Zmarzly ever talk about someone named Kent Warren?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the McBride 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 subway tunnel in China. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

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

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

"I can amble to China as soon as I pack a bowling ball, a pair of boxer shorts, and my Happy Meal."

"You'd better take a hair dryer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asserted charmingly.

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

She rose from her seat and skittered joyously out of the office. He stared ignobly after her.

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