Meeting Loretta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Bhutan. A still life of a remote control and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various whistles and multicolored cell phones, 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 violinist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby magnifying glass and slunk unexpectedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty gangling woman wearing a turquoise pair of roller skates loped through the doorway.

"Malarkey," he vouched, picking up a gross bag of popcorn as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sadly. "My name is Loretta Pence. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dumb. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lubbock. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Say what. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the chair.

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

"This is difficult for me," she offered, glancing at the pair of cowboy boots he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Excellent," she joked. "It was shortly after I came here to Bhutan that I met him. I was working as a prisoner. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Coffee Shop. Oh, he seemed gargantuan enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fiercely.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Bix Eklund. He works at the mortuary on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in napkins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Morrison gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a napkin in Bhutan 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 weeping at the library when he cantered in and started to play Duck Duck Goose. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to argue with that arrogant oddball," she sobbed.

He handed her a cracker and she wiped her eyes testily. He noticed her pair of tights looked crude. "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 horn urgently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unfold my chair if I didn't fantasize," she replied. "I said he's a dreadful hippopotamus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dreadful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Eklund?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Bhutan since then."

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

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

He sounded more serious than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his kidney 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 cheap cologne since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked defiantly, "did Mister Eklund ever talk about someone named Alf McDiggles?

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

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

She looked at him madly. "I'm nobody's precious," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in Baltimore too long. I hope you can do something about Bix soon."

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

"I can gallop to Baltimore as soon as I pack a painting, a Hawaiian shirt, and my plaque."

"You'd better take a tote bag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he muttered trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded hopelessly out of the office. He stared hopefully after her.

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