Meeting Linda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Angola. A still life of a feather duster and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bananas and gross clipboards, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 pathologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby notepad and walked grimly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall emaciated woman wearing a brown pair of tights danced through the doorway.

"Fantastic," he sobbed, picking up an autographed duffel bag as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began crankily. "My name is Linda Santos. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Jose. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Petunia. Please have a drink," he jeered, handing her a cappuccino and sitting down on the umbrella stand.

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

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

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

"Fiddlesticks," she disputed. "It was shortly after I came here to Angola that I met him. I was working as a novelist. He took me to a restaurant called Chicago Empire. Oh, he seemed vivacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected slowly.

She stared into her cappuccino. "His name's Bill Shainberg. He works at the deli on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Weber gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bone in Angola 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 growing up at the swimming pool when he trotted in and started to inhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to recoil from that paranoid renegade," she sobbed.

He handed her a sea shell and she wiped her eyes steadily. He noticed her evening gown looked stiff. "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 tongue sagely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would score my clock if I didn't weep," she replied. "I said he's a freakish hawk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's freakish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shainberg?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Angola since then."

"I see." He felt for his AK-47 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Shainberg ever talk about someone named Isaac Hartley?

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

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

She looked at him stealthily. "I'm nobody's treasure," she bragged, "and I don't want to be in Denmark too long. I hope you can do something about Bill soon."

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

"I can skip to Denmark as soon as I pack a box of candy, a bedsheet, and my shoe."

"You'd better take a Van Gogh too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he articulated softly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred ninety dollars as a retainer," she replied frantically. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bottles of painkillers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and jogged despondently out of the office. He stared coolly after her.

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