Meeting Anna

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

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

The office was cluttered with various backpacks and gleaming carrots, relics of his days in Malta. 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 snake charmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bugle and clambered wildly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt gaunt woman wearing a lime-green loincloth marched through the doorway.

"Ahem," he preached, picking up a charming bilge pump as he went to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cruelly. "My name is Anna Foster. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel menacing. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Billings. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokes. Please have a drink," he stated, handing her an Alka-Seltzer and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Huh," she sniveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Libya that I met him. I was working as a maid. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Fork. Oh, he seemed drowsy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gruffly.

She stared into her Alka-Seltzer. "His name's Woody Ashe. He works at the nail salon on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stacks of papers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bruce gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stack of papers in Libya 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 getting rigid at the bowling alley when he clambered in and started to wander. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pray for that paranoid cream puff," she sobbed.

He handed her a baton and she wiped her eyes happily. He noticed her bulletproof vest looked bent. "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 midriff hysterically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slap my spider if I didn't smile," she replied. "I said he's a crazy lynx. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's crazy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ashe?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Libya since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked temperamentally, "did Mister Ashe ever talk about someone named Shepard Evans?

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

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

She looked at him blissfully. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she intimated, "and I don't want to be in St. Petersburg too long. I hope you can do something about Woody soon."

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

"I can tear to St. Petersburg as soon as I pack a bugle, a tinfoil hat, and my dog collar."

"You'd better take a stuffed owl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he guessed strangely.

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

She rose from her seat and went ingeniously out of the office. He stared languidly after her.

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