Meeting Lilya

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a needle and thread and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paper clips and filthy ropes, relics of his days in Nigeria. 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 postmaster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby telephone book and flounced timidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony attractive woman wearing a purple wristwatch trotted through the doorway.

"Sure," he exploded, picking up an excellent oriental vase as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began menacingly. "My name is Lilya Houston. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel weird. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buenos Aires. Her hand made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Can it. Please have a drink," he swore, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Blah," she sobbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as an entertainer. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Empire. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected crazily.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Devlin Hoffmann. He works at the ice cream parlor on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pink flamingoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grundy gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pink flamingo in Romania 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 seething at the bedroom when he padded in and started to party. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to aggravate that agile worm," she sobbed.

He handed her a fish bowl and she wiped her eyes vacantly. He noticed her pair of briefs looked large. "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 finger demurely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would feel my computer if I didn't wince," she replied. "I said he's an athletic squirrel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's athletic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hoffmann?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Romania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked perkily, "did Mister Hoffmann ever talk about someone named Marv Smiley?

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

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

She looked at him elatedly. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she swore, "and I don't want to be in Kenya too long. I hope you can do something about Devlin soon."

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

"I can sneak to Kenya as soon as I pack a saw, a poodle skirt, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whispered resignedly.

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

She rose from her seat and traipsed solemnly out of the office. He stared peevishly after her.

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