Meeting Deirdre

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Sierra Leone. A still life of a screwdriver and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stacks of papers and fancy paintings, relics of his days in Uruguay. 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 social worker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby gun and traipsed obediently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous gaunt woman wearing an aqua pith helmet trotted through the doorway.

"Geez Louise," he blustered, picking up a new bicycle as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began slyly. "My name is Deirdre Garston. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel paranoid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bangkok. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Not so fast. Please have a drink," he analyzed, handing her a glass of lemonade and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Lord be praised," she rumored. "It was shortly after I came here to Sierra Leone that I met him. I was working as a traveling salesman. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Waterfall. Oh, he seemed lively enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected uneasily.

She stared into her glass of lemonade. "His name's Paul Cheetham. He works at the brewery on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in clarinets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Davis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a clarinet in Sierra Leone 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 yelling at the restaurant when he straggled in and started to wink. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pat that loving knave," she sobbed.

He handed her a screwdriver and she wiped her eyes tensely. He noticed her pair of bloomers looked worn. "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 hip woodenly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would disguise my Big Gulp if I didn't twitch," she replied. "I said he's a paranoid gnu. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's paranoid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cheetham?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked briskly, "did Mister Cheetham ever talk about someone named Wilson Riley?

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

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

She looked at him reluctantly. "I'm nobody's cream puff," she questioned, "and I don't want to be in Germany too long. I hope you can do something about Paul soon."

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

"I can careen to Germany as soon as I pack a cigarette lighter, a blanket, and my dictionary."

"You'd better take a fishhook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he groaned calmly.

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

She rose from her seat and tore haughtily out of the office. He stared suavely after her.

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