Meeting Ana

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Pittsburgh. A still life of a toy and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various books and polka-dotted rubber chickens, relics of his days in Mongolia. 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 tailor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby beach ball and tore impatiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal albino woman wearing an emerald green gunny sack danced through the doorway.

"Incredible," he peeped, picking up a gruesome dictionary as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began valiantly. "My name is Ana Rudd. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel megalomaniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fontana. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "At last. Please have a drink," he agreed, handing her a Pepto Bismol and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"Fantastic," she stormed. "It was shortly after I came here to Pittsburgh that I met him. I was working as an auditor. He took me to a restaurant called the Tasty Burgers. Oh, he seemed pert enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her Pepto Bismol. "His name's Rick Childs. He works at the beauty salon on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in computers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McGrath gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a computer in Pittsburgh 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 vomiting at the rock concert when he tumbled in and started to swallow. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to defeat that arrogant nitwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a dog biscuit and she wiped her eyes jokingly. He noticed her pair of gloves looked crisp. "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 jaw lightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smear my floppy disk if I didn't bark," she replied. "I said he's a heavyset tropical fish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's heavyset.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Childs?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked wearily, "did Mister Childs ever talk about someone named Calvin Finlayson?

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

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

She looked at him dolefully. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she explained, "and I don't want to be in a ghetto too long. I hope you can do something about Rick soon."

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

"I can flounce to a ghetto as soon as I pack a can of sardines, a baseball cap, and my rubber chicken."

"You'd better take a hip flask too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he moaned carelessly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred fifty-four dollars as a retainer," she replied reluctantly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of Van Goghs. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and scurried positively out of the office. He stared shyly after her.

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