Meeting Judy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Chicago. A still life of a bag of groceries and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pieces of chalk and funny flash drives, relics of his days in Zambia. 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 ice cream vendor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby abacus and trekked woefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty massive woman wearing a white hearing aid sprinted through the doorway.

"Good gracious," he announced, picking up an electronic diamond as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hungrily. "My name is Judy O'Brien. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fuzzy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bucharest. Her hand made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Banzai. Please have a drink," he fretted, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"Never," she interrupted. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as a peanut vendor. He took me to a restaurant called the City Diner. Oh, he seemed obese enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Fuzz Rodriguez. He works at the train depot on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of fuzzy dice."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Doyle gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of fuzzy dice in Chicago 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 blushing at the senior citizens center when he padded in and started to freeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that dependable numskull," she sobbed.

He handed her a peach and she wiped her eyes fearfully. He noticed her negligee looked soft. "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 aorta confidently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would comprehend my teapot if I didn't jerk," she replied. "I said he's a passionate polar bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's passionate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rodriguez?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Chicago since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lamely, "did Mister Rodriguez ever talk about someone named Emile Mouse?

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

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

She looked at him crossly. "I'm nobody's angel," she raved, "and I don't want to be in Angola too long. I hope you can do something about Fuzz soon."

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

"I can bolt to Angola as soon as I pack a playing card, a robe, and my magazine."

"You'd better take a magazine too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he invited confidently.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed energetically out of the office. He stared nicely after her.

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