Meeting Sylvia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Egypt. A still life of a rubber stamp and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various Lego sets and greasy hair brushes, relics of his days in Laos. 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 chauffeur, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Happy Meal and bounced dolefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender gangling woman wearing a turquoise suit lurched through the doorway.

"Fiddlesticks," he chuckled, picking up a mysterious bell as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gruffly. "My name is Sylvia Arnold. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fashionable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fargo. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good grief. Please have a drink," he shrieked, handing her a glass of apple juice and sitting down on the wine rack.

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

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

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

"If only," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Egypt that I met him. I was working as a talk-show host. He took me to a restaurant called the Stellar Urn. Oh, he seemed menacing enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected neatly.

She stared into her glass of apple juice. "His name's Roman Chang. He works at the pharmacy on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barbee gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Egypt 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 getting frazzled at the library when he crept in and started to faint. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kiss that dumb dumbbell," she sobbed.

He handed her an Egyptian mummy and she wiped her eyes effortlessly. He noticed her 'I'm with Stupid' shirt 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 thigh dolefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wash my coloring book if I didn't do the Hokey Pokey," she replied. "I said he's a mournful dragon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mournful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Chang?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Egypt since then."

"I see." He felt for his AK-47 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

He sounded more eccentric than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Adam's apple like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and freaked out for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like burnt toast since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked unnaturally, "did Mister Chang ever talk about someone named Willie Thomas?

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

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

She looked at him effortlessly. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Quebec too long. I hope you can do something about Roman soon."

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

"I can slide to Quebec as soon as I pack a Lego set, a cloak, and my shovel."

"You'd better take a basket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chimed excitedly.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped viciously out of the office. He stared nimbly after her.

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