Meeting Nora

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Liberia. A still life of a stopwatch and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tickets and polished coins, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 news reporter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby air compressor and galumphed softly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed beautiful woman wearing a magenta trench coat slunk through the doorway.

"Shoo," he added, picking up an old pink flamingo as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began slowly. "My name is Nora Grant. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel witty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Little Big Horn. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Congratulations. Please have a drink," he piped up, handing her a glass of papaya juice and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Indeed," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Liberia that I met him. I was working as an editor. He took me to a restaurant called the Dancing Food Factory. Oh, he seemed irate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected crankily.

She stared into her glass of papaya juice. "His name's Benjamin Santos. He works at the Starbucks on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rubber stamps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ridley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rubber stamp in Liberia 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 fretting at the radio station when he swaggered in and started to hiccup. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to punish that prickly knave," she sobbed.

He handed her a yardstick and she wiped her eyes deftly. He noticed her straitjacket looked amazing. "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 belly mysteriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would overlook my urn if I didn't snuffle," she replied. "I said he's a nonchalant wombat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's nonchalant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Santos?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Liberia 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 Benjamin Santos is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked admiringly, "did Mister Santos ever talk about someone named Bronk Wells?

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

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

She looked at him thoughtfully. "I'm nobody's turtle dove," she shouted, "and I don't want to be in Ohio too long. I hope you can do something about Benjamin soon."

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

"I can galumph to Ohio as soon as I pack a peach, a pair of socks, and my bird bath."

"You'd better take a cell phone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he complained temperamentally.

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

She rose from her seat and waded oddly out of the office. He stared despondently after her.

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