Meeting Susanna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in the Marshall Islands. A still life of a can of beer and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various sticks and jagged yardsticks, relics of his days in Samoa. 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 network administrator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ruler and lurched intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite emaciated woman wearing an amber headband cantered through the doorway.

"Ultimate," he boasted, picking up an important bowl as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began furiously. "My name is Susanna Wallace. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bold. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hong Kong. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Very well done. Please have a drink," he simpered, handing her a root beer float and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"Oh my word," she screamed. "It was shortly after I came here to the Marshall Islands that I met him. I was working as a real estate agent. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Panda. Oh, he seemed refined enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daintily.

She stared into her root beer float. "His name's Fred Singh. He works at the shoe store on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spiders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Torres gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spider in the Marshall Islands 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 lying around in bed at the closet when he reeled in and started to rock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to jab that absent-minded stumblebum," she sobbed.

He handed her a hat and she wiped her eyes cheerfully. He noticed her bikini looked striped. "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 forehead nonchalantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cook my thumb drive if I didn't quiver," she replied. "I said he's an unruffled giraffe. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's unruffled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Singh?"

"Only a month; I've only been in the Marshall Islands since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked perkily, "did Mister Singh ever talk about someone named John Beversdorf?

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

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

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's honey-babe," she reacted, "and I don't want to be in Zambia too long. I hope you can do something about Fred soon."

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

"I can lurch to Zambia as soon as I pack a flyswatter, a body shirt, and my saw."

"You'd better take a blank check too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chanted strangely.

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled roughly out of the office. He stared intensely after her.

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