Meeting Lucille

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in the United Kingdom. A still life of a crystal ball and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various umbrellas and authentic chairs, relics of his days in Nepal. 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 mediator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coffee pot and waltzed later toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied athletic woman wearing a carrot-orange poncho climbed through the doorway.

"Ultimate," he sniveled, picking up a crooked pumpkin as he whirled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began urgently. "My name is Lucille Warren. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel crafty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Diego. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Jiminy crickets. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a cappuccino and sitting down on the overstuffed chair.

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

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

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

"Ouch," she commented. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Kingdom that I met him. I was working as an insurance agent. He took me to a restaurant called New York Dynasty. Oh, he seemed fierce enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sheepishly.

She stared into her cappuccino. "His name's Aaron O'Brien. He works at the pizza joint on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in water bottles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Porterfield gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a water bottle in the United Kingdom 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 snuffling at the saloon when he made a beeline in and started to dither. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stare at that sarcastic slubberdegullion," she sobbed.

He handed her a Van Gogh and she wiped her eyes cruelly. He noticed her trench coat looked autographed. "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 nostril noisily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lengthen my chain if I didn't crouch," she replied. "I said he's a pensive kangaroo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pensive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. O'Brien?"

"Only a year; I've only been in the United Kingdom since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nonchalantly, "did Mister O'Brien ever talk about someone named Everett Bransen?

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

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

She looked at him viciously. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she urged, "and I don't want to be in Vanatu too long. I hope you can do something about Aaron soon."

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

"I can bound to Vanatu as soon as I pack a compass, a shawl, and my toilet plunger."

"You'd better take a towel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled joyously.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled admiringly out of the office. He stared suspiciously after her.

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