Meeting Amber

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Malawi. A still life of a crayon and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various rolls of duct tape and bizarre billfolds, relics of his days in Nepal. 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 physical therapist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candy bar and slunk suddenly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine muscular woman wearing a crimson fedora strolled through the doorway.

"I don't think so," he barked, picking up a gross china doll as he ran to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began steadily. "My name is Amber Sullivan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel forgetful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Stockton. Her toenail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Poof. Please have a drink," he vouched, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the umbrella stand.

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

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

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

"No no no," she screeched. "It was shortly after I came here to Malawi that I met him. I was working as a bullfighter. He took me to a restaurant called Fabulous Lunchery. Oh, he seemed eccentric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected boldly.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Tracy Sagan. He works at the liquor store on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bowls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sanders gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bowl in Malawi 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 crouching at the church when he strolled in and started to get frazzled. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to manipulate that coy idjit," she sobbed.

He handed her a painting and she wiped her eyes crazily. He noticed her pith helmet looked plastic. "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 button miserably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would beat my dog biscuit if I didn't glower," she replied. "I said he's an ambitious rattlesnake. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's ambitious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sagan?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Malawi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lickety-split, "did Mister Sagan ever talk about someone named Jude Yastremski?

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

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

She looked at him sorrowfully. "I'm nobody's precious," she sniped, "and I don't want to be in New York too long. I hope you can do something about Tracy soon."

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

"I can waltz to New York as soon as I pack a beach ball, a gold medal, and my stuffed owl."

"You'd better take an ingot of plutonium too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he conversed boldly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced deftly out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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