Meeting Fiona

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Lexington. A still life of an ingot of plutonium and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dog collars and curved spinning wheels, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 kindergarten teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chess set and lumbered sleepily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky scraggly woman wearing a maroon jerkin proceeded through the doorway.

"Hot dog," he swore, picking up a primitive ingot of plutonium as he made a beeline to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began joyously. "My name is Fiona McGill. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel atrocious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pittsburgh. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Quick. Please have a drink," he spoke up, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Yowie," she opined. "It was shortly after I came here to Lexington that I met him. I was working as a technician. He took me to a restaurant called the White Snack Shack. Oh, he seemed wicked enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopelessly.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Rodney Feeley. He works at the shoe shine booth on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in antennas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bilgewater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an antenna in Lexington 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 gesticulating at the Seven-Eleven when he scurried in and started to stare into space. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trust that bad loser," she sobbed.

He handed her a stapler and she wiped her eyes gingerly. He noticed her bodysuit looked brittle. "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 narrowly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would praise my Hostess Ding Dong if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's a vivacious skunk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's vivacious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Feeley?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Lexington since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sympathetically, "did Mister Feeley ever talk about someone named Maloney Pryor?

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

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

She looked at him irritably. "I'm nobody's lambkin," she asserted, "and I don't want to be in Mozambique too long. I hope you can do something about Rodney soon."

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

"I can slump to Mozambique as soon as I pack a knitting needle, a pair of moccasins, and my salt shaker."

"You'd better take an ashtray too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he harangued jokingly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's ninety-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied sharply. I also have an extremely valuable collection of knitting needles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and slunk grudgingly out of the office. He stared gruffly after her.

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