Meeting Debbie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Nairobi. A still life of a photograph and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cigarettes and greasy feather dusters, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 stagehand, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby horseshoe and crept blissfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious elderly woman wearing an emerald green few fuzzy rags skidded through the doorway.

"Oh please," he purred, picking up an aromatic bird feeder as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ruefully. "My name is Debbie Marlowe. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disorganized. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hanoi. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My land. Please have a drink," he rationalized, handing her a cup of hot chocolate and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Get out," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Nairobi that I met him. I was working as a barista. He took me to a restaurant called London Jubilee. Oh, he seemed lethargic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lamely.

She stared into her cup of hot chocolate. "His name's Running Bear Cannon. He works at the travel agency on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hip flasks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Carson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hip flask in Nairobi 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 swooning at the health club when he skittered in and started to stare into space. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to forget that sinister demon," she sobbed.

He handed her a coupon and she wiped her eyes glumly. He noticed her necktie looked bulky. "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 spinal cord lovingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lose my box if I didn't spit," she replied. "I said he's a haughty ghost. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's haughty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cannon?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Nairobi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked elatedly, "did Mister Cannon ever talk about someone named Devon Sludge?

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

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

She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's sugar," she sniveled, "and I don't want to be in Paris too long. I hope you can do something about Running Bear soon."

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

"I can stalk to Paris as soon as I pack a flashlight, a pair of Crocs, and my whoopee cushion."

"You'd better take an etching too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smiled threateningly.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered silently out of the office. He stared blindly after her.

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