Meeting Sandra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Madison. A still life of a bagpipe and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various campaign signs and multicolored charts, 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 novelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cupcake and jumped daringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky lean woman wearing a hot pink robe sailed through the doorway.

"Gesundheit," he hollered, picking up a hand-carved Egyptian mummy as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began charmingly. "My name is Sandra Park. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sleepy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Modesto. Her skull made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I think not. Please have a drink," he panted, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Mother of peanut butter," she instructed. "It was shortly after I came here to Madison that I met him. I was working as a gravedigger. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Saloon. Oh, he seemed refined enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected perkily.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Floyd Silva. He works at the dry cleaner on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of soup."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Papadopoulos gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of soup in Madison 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 saloon when he crawled in and started to vegetate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shock that loving barbarian," she sobbed.

He handed her a handkerchief and she wiped her eyes pityingly. He noticed her tie looked ruined. "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 calf suspiciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tweak my yardstick if I didn't clatter," she replied. "I said he's an affable gerbil. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's affable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Silva?"

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

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

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

He sounded more nervous 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 curtseyed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like blue cheese since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blissfully, "did Mister Silva ever talk about someone named Zed Marsden?

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

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

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she bragged, "and I don't want to be in Lebanon too long. I hope you can do something about Floyd soon."

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

"I can canter to Lebanon as soon as I pack a baseball bat, a suit, and my Frisbee."

"You'd better take a clothespin too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he urged crossly.

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

She rose from her seat and sidled fiercely out of the office. He stared immediately after her.

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