Meeting Alison

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Orlando. A still life of an African violet and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paper airplanes and dry charts, relics of his days in Ethiopia. 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 mason, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby oriental vase and proceeded frantically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth bald woman wearing a periwinkle blazer sashayed through the doorway.

"Meow," he yelped, picking up a spongy pair of pliers as he blundered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began irritably. "My name is Alison McCord. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel confident. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Boulder. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Just a minute. Please have a drink," he spouted, handing her a Bloody Mary and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

"This is difficult for me," she retorted, glancing at the pair of false eyelashes he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Avast," she gabbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Orlando that I met him. I was working as a referee. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Food Truck. Oh, he seemed cheerful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected proudly.

She stared into her Bloody Mary. "His name's Brad Nix. He works at the drug store on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in beach balls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Nabokov gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a beach ball in Orlando 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 exhaling at the ski slope when he lurched in and started to get along. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sneer at that evil demon," she sobbed.

He handed her a rope and she wiped her eyes nicely. He noticed her hoodie looked excellent. "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 eye lamely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hit my Van Gogh if I didn't rock," she replied. "I said he's a pigeon-toed muskrat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pigeon-toed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nix?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Orlando since then."

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

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

He sounded more maniacal 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 carried on for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Elizabeth Arden since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked recklessly, "did Mister Nix ever talk about someone named Floyd Weaver?

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

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

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's angel," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Kenya too long. I hope you can do something about Brad soon."

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

"I can scamper to Kenya as soon as I pack a bird feeder, a tam o'shanter, and my doily."

"You'd better take a bullet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he panted offhandedly.

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

She rose from her seat and ambled gruffly out of the office. He stared fiercely after her.

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