Meeting Denise

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Louisville. A still life of a mirror and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various protest signs and used knitting needles, 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 physician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bagpipe and scampered solemnly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall neat woman wearing an olive drab dog collar marched through the doorway.

"Really," he began, picking up a huge chamber pot as he slunk to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hopelessly. "My name is Denise Ansler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel garrulous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Boise. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Abracadabra. Please have a drink," he rebutted, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Woohoo," she intimated. "It was shortly after I came here to Louisville that I met him. I was working as a student. He took me to a restaurant called the Hot Bridge. Oh, he seemed sleek enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected temperamentally.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Matthew Busch. He works at the ad agency on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in protest signs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barrett gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a protest sign in Louisville 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 weeping at the ski resort when he flounced in and started to holler. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to charm that vile dolt," she sobbed.

He handed her a peace pipe and she wiped her eyes impatiently. He noticed her pair of heels looked speckled. "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 viciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would identify my Hostess Ding Dong if I didn't bounce," she replied. "I said he's a noble seal. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's noble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Busch?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Louisville since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sternly, "did Mister Busch ever talk about someone named Christian Sterling?

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

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

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she argued, "and I don't want to be in Cyprus too long. I hope you can do something about Matthew soon."

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

"I can scoot to Cyprus as soon as I pack a crystal ball, a bracelet, and my cardboard box."

"You'd better take a Band-aid too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reminded fondly.

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

She rose from her seat and inched valiantly out of the office. He stared sharply after her.

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