Meeting Susanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Uzbekistan. A still life of a pumpkin and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various clothespins and automatic piggy banks, relics of his days in Angola. 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 banker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby remote control and slipped positively toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied adorable woman wearing a grey tuxedo scooted through the doorway.

"Phew," he spouted, picking up a funny trash can as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gingerly. "My name is Susanne Shelby. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubby. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manhattan. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokes. Please have a drink," he mused, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"How about that," she prattled. "It was shortly after I came here to Uzbekistan that I met him. I was working as a rocket scientist. He took me to a restaurant called Fabulous Burger Joint. Oh, he seemed relaxed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Peter Barry. He works at the shoe shine booth on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of scissors."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Simpson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of scissors in Uzbekistan 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 exercising at the basement when he sprinted in and started to get upset. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to massage that unselfish nut," she sobbed.

He handed her an antenna and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her lab coat looked leather. "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 tail angrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would melt my flute if I didn't dither," she replied. "I said he's an intense hamster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's intense.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barry?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Uzbekistan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked timidly, "did Mister Barry ever talk about someone named Garth Pythagoras?

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

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

She looked at him gingerly. "I'm nobody's baby-cakes," she groaned, "and I don't want to be in Malawi too long. I hope you can do something about Peter soon."

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

"I can rush to Malawi as soon as I pack a calculator, a balaclava, and my pair of pliers."

"You'd better take a feather too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sneered sagely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's thirty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied humbly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of shovels. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and slithered coldly out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.

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