Meeting Lorna
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought solemnly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling Rubik's cubes door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in St. Louis. A still life of a bucket and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was cluttered with various diaries and wet cardboard boxes, relics of his days in Serbia. 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 ship's officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diary and bounced humbly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a hunky tattooed woman wearing a white gown inched through the doorway.
"Really," he gasped, picking up a striped Helmholz resonator as he leapt to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began hysterically. "My name is Lorna Dewey. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel peculiar. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Moscow. Her dignity made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Retch. Please have a drink," he sneered, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the hamper.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she added, glancing at the set of football pads he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied strictly.
"For Pete's sake," she rambled. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Louis that I met him. I was working as an FBI Agent. He took me to a restaurant called Northern Temple. Oh, he seemed ignoble enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected cunningly.
She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Kim Young. He works at the library on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in barbells."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Piper gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a barbell in St. Louis 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 clapping at the disco when he reeled in and started to come over. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to break that fashionable dirty dog," she sobbed.
He handed her a pair of pliers and she wiped her eyes resignedly. He noticed her Armani suit looked hand-carved. "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 tongue busily. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would kiss my microscope if I didn't seethe," she replied. "I said he's a mournful aardvark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mournful.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Young?"
"Only a year; I've only been in St. Louis since then."
"I see." He felt for his witty reparteé in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Kim Young is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more solitary than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his buttocks like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and burbled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like blue cheese since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked elatedly, "did Mister Young ever talk about someone named Paul Craig?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a honk.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Piper operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, little one, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice studio in Fort Worth. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him humbly. "I'm nobody's little one," she hummed, "and I don't want to be in Fort Worth too long. I hope you can do something about Kim soon."
"I'll do my best, sweetheart. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can fly to Fort Worth as soon as I pack an accordion, a cap, and my ironing board."
"You'd better take a stapler too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bellowed sarcastically.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred eighty-four dollars as a retainer," she replied clumsily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of yardsticks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and swaggered numbly out of the office. He stared tearfully after her.
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