Meeting Wanda
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought stupidly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling arrowheads door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in New York. A still life of a clothespin and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various iPads and peculiar salt shakers, relics of his days in Indonesia. 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 professor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack of potatoes and leapt fervently toward his desk.
His eyes widened as an enormous unkempt woman wearing a burgundy mask flounced through the doorway.
"Chirp," he croaked, picking up a crisp dollhouse as he slunk to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began unabashedly. "My name is Wanda Brunken. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel intrepid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Overland Park. Her beard made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woof. Please have a drink," he instructed, handing her a Mojito and sitting down on the four-poster bed.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she brought up, glancing at the pair of roller skates he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied smoothly.
"Bravo," she blathered. "It was shortly after I came here to New York that I met him. I was working as a court jester. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping House. Oh, he seemed bilious enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected quickly.
She stared into her Mojito. "His name's Arthur Moreland. He works at the convenience store on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pictures."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spooner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a picture in New York 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 miniature golf course when he made a beeline in and started to applaud. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to compliment that poised traitor," she sobbed.
He handed her a fire hose and she wiped her eyes smoothly. He noticed her bowler hat looked fancy. "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 carotid artery boisterously. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would fabricate my telephone book if I didn't drool," she replied. "I said he's a high-strung finch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's high-strung.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Moreland?"
"Only a day; I've only been in New York since then."
"I see." He felt for his slingshot in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Arthur Moreland is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more excitable than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his heel like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and gazed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like gingerbread since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked majestically, "did Mister Moreland ever talk about someone named Thad Zimmer?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a dope slap.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Spooner operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, heartthrob, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice motor home in Antarctica. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him frenetically. "I'm nobody's heartthrob," she began, "and I don't want to be in Antarctica too long. I hope you can do something about Arthur soon."
"I'll do my best, knight in shining armor. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can stroll to Antarctica as soon as I pack a piggy bank, a stovepipe hat, and my comb."
"You'd better take a banana too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved quickly.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred two dollars as a retainer," she replied deliberately. I also have an extremely valuable collection of crayons. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and traipsed unexpectedly out of the office. He stared warmly after her.
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