Meeting Leonie

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought briskly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling ingots of plutonium 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 houseplant and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various piggy banks and burned coconuts, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 radiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby billiard ball and proceeded sweetly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout albino woman wearing a periwinkle raincoat scooted through the doorway.

"In your dreams," he begged, picking up a rusty air compressor as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began truculently. "My name is Leonie Piper. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubborn. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Bernardino. Her Adam's apple made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hold your horses. Please have a drink," he warbled, handing her a gimlet and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

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

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

"Yes," she yelped. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as a street sweeper. He took me to a restaurant called the Stone Seafood Restaurant. Oh, he seemed portly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hysterically.

She stared into her gimlet. "His name's Jake Kollmorgen. He works at the storage unit on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coffee pots."

"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 coffee pot 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 swaying at the basement when he sashayed in and started to chuckle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dump that direct slug," she sobbed.

He handed her a painting and she wiped her eyes flightily. He noticed her earring looked queer. "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 head primly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would exclude my urn if I didn't play solitaire," she replied. "I said he's a refined fish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's refined.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kollmorgen?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked hopefully, "did Mister Kollmorgen ever talk about someone named Studs Witherbee?

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

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

She looked at him lamely. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she observed, "and I don't want to be in Miami too long. I hope you can do something about Jake soon."

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

"I can trot to Miami as soon as I pack a grease gun, a flak jacket, and my fingernail clipper."

"You'd better take a nail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he croaked pitifully.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered admiringly out of the office. He stared diligently after her.

Next Chapter