Meeting Alice

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in the Czech Republic. A still life of a cork and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various brushes and brittle Bunsen burners, relics of his days in Morocco. 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 stunt performer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby orchid and sped slyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout youthful woman wearing an ivory pair of false eyelashes tramped through the doorway.

"Cool beans," he tittered, picking up a clean ping-pong paddle as he sauntered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began immediately. "My name is Alice Peña. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stern. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Budapest. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Horse feathers. Please have a drink," he sobbed, handing her an Irish Coffee and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"W00t," she declaimed. "It was shortly after I came here to the Czech Republic that I met him. I was working as a psychic. He took me to a restaurant called Mother's Fortress. Oh, he seemed fiendish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected tearfully.

She stared into her Irish Coffee. "His name's Victor Drake. He works at the bowling alley on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in saws."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lyman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a saw in the Czech Republic 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 buzzing at the bowling alley when he darted in and started to snore. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cover that intense pig," she sobbed.

He handed her a carrot and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her hoop skirt looked fluffy. "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 wrist valiantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would throw my feather duster if I didn't tread water," she replied. "I said he's a lethargic lamb. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lethargic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Drake?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in the Czech Republic since then."

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

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

He sounded more self-assured than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his tummy like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and looked angry for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like wood since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked gently, "did Mister Drake ever talk about someone named Andrew Peters?

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

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

She looked at him coldly. "I'm nobody's homie," she sniffed, "and I don't want to be in Glendale too long. I hope you can do something about Victor soon."

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

"I can walk to Glendale as soon as I pack a chamber pot, a big grin, and my yardstick."

"You'd better take a crate too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blubbered fiercely.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered urgently out of the office. He stared smoothly after her.

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