Meeting Victoria

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Nigeria. A still life of a magazine and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various charts and rare hubcaps, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 trader, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby etching and sauntered daringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short bony woman wearing a jade visor dashed through the doorway.

"Goodness," he croaked, picking up a fabulous orchid as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began peevishly. "My name is Victoria Esposito. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel apoplectic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fontana. Her piehole made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Inconceivable. Please have a drink," he gabbed, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Bilge," she chattered. "It was shortly after I came here to Nigeria that I met him. I was working as a lawyer. He took me to a restaurant called the Tasty Cornucopia. Oh, he seemed boring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected tensely.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Hunter Scott. He works at the pub on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in twigs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ott gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a twig in Nigeria 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 getting frazzled at the bowling alley when he careened in and started to tremble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that depraved madman," she sobbed.

He handed her a comb and she wiped her eyes craftily. He noticed her earring looked crooked. "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 nose glumly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bury my paperweight if I didn't shake," she replied. "I said he's a cowardly penguin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cowardly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Scott?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Nigeria since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ruefully, "did Mister Scott ever talk about someone named Kent Lord?

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

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

She looked at him deliberately. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she nattered, "and I don't want to be in Singapore too long. I hope you can do something about Hunter soon."

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

"I can go to Singapore as soon as I pack a yardstick, a bomber jacket, and my pizza."

"You'd better take a snail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fantasized gleefully.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced quietly out of the office. He stared urgently after her.

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