Meeting Candi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in New Haven. A still life of a pigeon and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various water bottles and crooked cowbells, relics of his days in Morocco. 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 school principal, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby telephone and swung grimly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous sorrowful woman wearing a pea green hoodie sped through the doorway.

"Blaak," he laughed, picking up a hand-painted bowling ball as he tore to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ferociously. "My name is Candi Whitney. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel diabolical. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Topeka. Her cheek made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "You're kidding. Please have a drink," he suggested, handing her a shot of bourbon and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"Sacre bleu," she rebutted. "It was shortly after I came here to New Haven that I met him. I was working as a philosopher. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed monstrous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suddenly.

She stared into her shot of bourbon. "His name's Alf Rudnick. He works at the barbershop on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ingots of plutonium."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Drake gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ingot of plutonium in New Haven 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 jumping at the day care center when he sauntered in and started to pass out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stop that selfish hellhound," she sobbed.

He handed her an acorn and she wiped her eyes needlessly. He noticed her hoop skirt looked gross. "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 pituitary gland demurely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would beat my fingernail clipper if I didn't lounge," she replied. "I said he's a queer dolphin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's queer.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rudnick?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in New Haven since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sadly, "did Mister Rudnick ever talk about someone named Wilson Dewey?

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

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

She looked at him zestily. "I'm nobody's old friend," she emphasized, "and I don't want to be in Anaheim too long. I hope you can do something about Alf soon."

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

"I can inch to Anaheim as soon as I pack a cardboard box, a pair of roller skates, and my calling card."

"You'd better take a china doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he said innocently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied glumly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bowling balls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and skittered stealthily out of the office. He stared trustingly after her.

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