Meeting Cindi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Boise. A still life of a twig and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various Rubik's cubes and dry cameras, relics of his days in England. 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 obstetrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tennis racket and stormed angrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky Asian woman wearing an orange pair of bloomers staggered through the doorway.

"Oh my," he mused, picking up a leather fountain pen as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began delicately. "My name is Cindi Jetson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel spunky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fort Worth. Her skin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy buckets. Please have a drink," he breathed, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the filing cabinet.

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

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

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

"Ouch," she stuttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Boise that I met him. I was working as a tax collector. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Fortress. Oh, he seemed beautiful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected intensely.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Brent MacGibbon. He works at the video arcade on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brochures."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brinkman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a brochure in Boise 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 rejoicing at the Seven-Eleven when he galloped in and started to step aside. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trust that choleric pook," she sobbed.

He handed her a key ring and she wiped her eyes blissfully. He noticed her flour sack looked bronze. "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 palm stupidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prod my remote control if I didn't wait," she replied. "I said he's a refined gerbil. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's refined.'"

"How long have you known Mr. MacGibbon?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Boise since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister MacGibbon ever talk about someone named Hunter Logan?

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

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

She looked at him angrily. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she inquired, "and I don't want to be in Louisville too long. I hope you can do something about Brent soon."

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

"I can inch to Louisville as soon as I pack a basketball, a gold medal, and my Barbie doll."

"You'd better take a spinning wheel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rebutted curiously.

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

She rose from her seat and flew tenderly out of the office. He stared unexpectedly after her.

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