Meeting Laurie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Kansas. A still life of a flamethrower and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various candy canes and spongy corsages, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 kindergarten teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby abacus and slid suavely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive eye-catching woman wearing a sea green jumpsuit bolted through the doorway.

"Whee," he reacted, picking up a gaudy paper bag as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began caustically. "My name is Laurie Eaton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bad. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Irving. Her ear made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Really. Please have a drink," he professed, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Cock-a-doodle-doo," she orated. "It was shortly after I came here to Kansas that I met him. I was working as a song writer. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Dragon. Oh, he seemed pert enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stealthily.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Frank Allison. He works at the newsstand on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Bunsen burners."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gunderson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Bunsen burner in Kansas 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 jiggling at the juice shop when he lurched in and started to grumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to grill that brilliant bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a flag and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her wet suit looked aromatic. "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 calf coldly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would switch my apple if I didn't fulminate," she replied. "I said he's an anemic hermit crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's anemic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Allison?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Kansas since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked oddly, "did Mister Allison ever talk about someone named Phil Lawler?

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

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

She looked at him grudgingly. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she declaimed, "and I don't want to be in Atlanta too long. I hope you can do something about Frank soon."

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

"I can clamber to Atlanta as soon as I pack a firecracker, a gunny sack, and my washrag."

"You'd better take a mousetrap too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he panted menacingly.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed crossly out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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