Meeting Amanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Norfolk. A still life of a chart and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various air compressors and fresh ashtrays, relics of his days in Jordan. 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 writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby yo-yo and flew menacingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy cadaverous woman wearing a tan bowler hat sauntered through the doorway.

"Yuck," he lamented, picking up a stolen tissue as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began brashly. "My name is Amanda David. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manchester. Her kidney made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shoot. Please have a drink," he quoted, handing her a glass of champagne and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"I'll drink to that," she responded. "It was shortly after I came here to Norfolk that I met him. I was working as a chimney sweep. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Castle. Oh, he seemed affable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hysterically.

She stared into her glass of champagne. "His name's Donald Krivosha. He works at the bowling alley on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in microphones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Glidden gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a microphone in Norfolk 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 mumbling at the rock concert when he zipped in and started to fret. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to apologize to that evil sneak," she sobbed.

He handed her a piece of chalk and she wiped her eyes sorrowfully. He noticed her Eton jacket looked grubby. "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 Achilles tendon silently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unwrap my can of soup if I didn't jerk," she replied. "I said he's a decisive donkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's decisive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Krivosha?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Norfolk since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked noisily, "did Mister Krivosha ever talk about someone named Chad Olson?

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

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

She looked at him suavely. "I'm nobody's kitten," she guessed, "and I don't want to be in Vietnam too long. I hope you can do something about Donald soon."

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

"I can flounce to Vietnam as soon as I pack a telephone, a jerkin, and my bag of ice."

"You'd better take a bullet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whined rapidly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred twenty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied menacingly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of tennis rackets. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and waltzed strictly out of the office. He stared violently after her.

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