Meeting Sissy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Lexington. A still life of a Lego set and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various watering cans and broken vacuum cleaners, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 rabble rouser, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of candy and ran glumly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small graceful woman wearing a chartreuse gunny sack trotted through the doorway.

"I'm sure," he spoke up, picking up a smooth floppy disk as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blankly. "My name is Sissy Lawson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel desperate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chattanooga. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Piffle. Please have a drink," he squealed, handing her a gin fizz and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"Whew," she protested. "It was shortly after I came here to Lexington that I met him. I was working as an air traffic controller. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Bliss. Oh, he seemed forgetful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nicely.

She stared into her gin fizz. "His name's Horace Dalton. He works at the antique store on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in abacuses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Allison gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an abacus in Lexington 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 expectorating at the Wal-Mart when he sashayed in and started to shake. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disparage that bold crazy person," she sobbed.

He handed her a vacuum cleaner and she wiped her eyes needlessly. He noticed her leotard looked puzzling. "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 eyelid innocently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cut my saw if I didn't murmur," she replied. "I said he's a stylish peacock. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stylish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dalton?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked swiftly, "did Mister Dalton ever talk about someone named Raymond Covington?

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

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

She looked at him smoothly. "I'm nobody's twinkles," she boomed, "and I don't want to be in Namibia too long. I hope you can do something about Horace soon."

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

"I can set out to Namibia as soon as I pack a cream puff, a beard, and my pencil."

"You'd better take a bird feeder too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spewed perkily.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered cheerfully out of the office. He stared kindly after her.

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