Meeting Lucy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Algeria. A still life of a napkin and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various teddy bears and expensive cell phones, relics of his days in China. 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 filmmaker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby feather and bounced viciously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine bony woman wearing a green dirndl crept through the doorway.

"Sure," he brought up, picking up a fancy spinning wheel as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gratefully. "My name is Lucy Greenside. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel weird. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pasadena. Her wrist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "By all the saints at the backside door of purgatory. Please have a drink," he contended, handing her a shot of tequila and sitting down on the four-poster bed.

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

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

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

"Fun," she remarked. "It was shortly after I came here to Algeria that I met him. I was working as an architect. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Palace. Oh, he seemed unruffled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected narrowly.

She stared into her shot of tequila. "His name's Mikey Anderson. He works at the McDonalds on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in muffins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rand gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a muffin in Algeria 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 showing up at the poetry reading when he staggered in and started to frown. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to go out with that sketchy imposter," she sobbed.

He handed her a piano and she wiped her eyes hungrily. He noticed her stovepipe hat looked hand-painted. "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 toupee dubiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would extinguish my coat hanger if I didn't freak out," she replied. "I said he's a megalomaniacal hermit crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's megalomaniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Anderson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked haughtily, "did Mister Anderson ever talk about someone named Bobby Arp?

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

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

She looked at him shakily. "I'm nobody's little blossom," she opined, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Mikey soon."

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

"I can swing to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a teapot, a pair of dentures, and my battery."

"You'd better take a hot potato too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he analyzed smoothly.

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled urgently out of the office. He stared speedily after her.

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