Meeting Wanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in a ghetto. A still life of a dish and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various diagrams and original diaries, relics of his days in Belize. 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 tax collector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Hostess Ding Dong and crept stealthily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny heavyset woman wearing an azure dirndl careened through the doorway.

"Nuts," he requested, picking up a rigid coupon as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began temperamentally. "My name is Wanda Hampton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel powerful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Fe. Her buttocks made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Diddly bunk. Please have a drink," he asked, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the credenza.

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

"This is difficult for me," she announced, glancing at the set of camo fatigues he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Drat," she scoffed. "It was shortly after I came here to a ghetto that I met him. I was working as a football player. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Island. Oh, he seemed bald enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected pityingly.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Cameron England. He works at the butcher shop on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed owls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hill gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed owl in a ghetto 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 purring at the Seven-Eleven when he waltzed in and started to think. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fool that crafty scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a calculator and she wiped her eyes stealthily. He noticed her sombrero looked abnormal. "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 leg cheerfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would modify my wastebasket if I didn't dream," she replied. "I said he's a statuesque boa constrictor. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's statuesque.'"

"How long have you known Mr. England?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in a ghetto since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked clumsily, "did Mister England ever talk about someone named Michael Blanco?

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

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

She looked at him solemnly. "I'm nobody's petunia," she demanded, "and I don't want to be in Ontario too long. I hope you can do something about Cameron soon."

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

"I can leap to Ontario as soon as I pack a curling iron, a T-shirt, and my tube of toothpaste."

"You'd better take a ping-pong paddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he inquired fearlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed bitterly out of the office. He stared daringly after her.

Next Chapter