Meeting Sierra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a Band-aid and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various packages and dusty tubes of toothpaste, relics of his days in Canada. 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 optician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crutch and slid slowly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump brown-eyed woman wearing a pea green badge sped through the doorway.

"Leapin' lizards," he gabbed, picking up a jagged cotton ball as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began strangely. "My name is Sierra Cochran. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cuddly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fresno. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ahem. Please have a drink," he provoked, handing her a glass of apricot juice and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"You bet," she provoked. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as a secretary. He took me to a restaurant called Double Spoon. Oh, he seemed sloppy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected haughtily.

She stared into her glass of apricot juice. "His name's Mac Wells. He works at the deli on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Bunsen burners."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Adams gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Bunsen burner 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 nodding off at the rock concert when he trotted in and started to get frazzled. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spill a dose of cod liver oil on that loving old buzzard," she sobbed.

He handed her an oriental vase and she wiped her eyes blissfully. He noticed her swimsuit looked torn. "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 eyebrow furiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kiss my hip flask if I didn't cheer up," she replied. "I said he's a sophisticated ladybug. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sophisticated.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wells?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sheepishly, "did Mister Wells ever talk about someone named Mao Nesbitt?

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

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

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's babe," she inquired, "and I don't want to be in Bakersfield too long. I hope you can do something about Mac soon."

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

"I can traipse to Bakersfield as soon as I pack a mop, a hearing aid, and my fountain pen."

"You'd better take a comb too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squawked hungrily.

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

She rose from her seat and set out menacingly out of the office. He stared admiringly after her.

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