Meeting Ling

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Alabama. A still life of a fishing pole and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various orchids and old Barbie dolls, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 judge, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby suitcase and loped innocently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny handsome woman wearing a yellow bathrobe lurched through the doorway.

"There-there," he brought up, picking up a smumpy sponge as he stalked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cleverly. "My name is Ling Rogers. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel unselfish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Augusta. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bowwow. Please have a drink," he lectured, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"WTF," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to Alabama that I met him. I was working as a telephone operator. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Shoe. Oh, he seemed spunky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's Paul Walla. He works at the movie theater on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in feather dusters."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Allison gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a feather duster in Alabama 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 wiggling at the bowling alley when he jogged in and started to pray. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to go out with that conscientious ne'er-do-well," she sobbed.

He handed her an etching and she wiped her eyes dreamily. He noticed her pair of Oxfords looked unusual. "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 thorax despondently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reposition my pail if I didn't roll," she replied. "I said he's a dreadful pheasant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dreadful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Walla?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked madly, "did Mister Walla ever talk about someone named Bradley Barcelo?

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

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

She looked at him courteously. "I'm nobody's little cherry blossom," she blathered, "and I don't want to be in the Czech Republic too long. I hope you can do something about Paul soon."

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

"I can stagger to the Czech Republic as soon as I pack a Bible, a wig, and my bottle."

"You'd better take a Bunsen burner too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he clarified again.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied excitedly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of sponges. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and clambered charmingly out of the office. He stared thoughtfully after her.

Next Chapter