Meeting Vanessa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Wisconsin. A still life of a hubcap and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various backpacks and small muffins, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 convenience store clerk, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby calculator and tumbled firmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy dapper woman wearing a beige gunny sack cantered through the doorway.

"Diddly bunk," he declared, picking up a forest green baton as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began wearily. "My name is Vanessa Bentzinger. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel playful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Perth. Her wrist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Really. Please have a drink," he whimpered, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Ay yi yi," she cried. "It was shortly after I came here to Wisconsin that I met him. I was working as a flight attendant. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Mist. Oh, he seemed disagreeable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sheepishly.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Dakota Goldwater. He works at the cigar store on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of paper."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Best gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of paper in Wisconsin 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 whirling at the library when he stalked in and started to peep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chat with that attractive dope," she sobbed.

He handed her a basket and she wiped her eyes numbly. He noticed her body shirt looked musty. "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 buttocks brightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rebuild my flyswatter if I didn't glower," she replied. "I said he's a prickly fawn. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prickly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Goldwater?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Wisconsin since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sternly, "did Mister Goldwater ever talk about someone named Greg Madison?

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

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

She looked at him uselessly. "I'm nobody's home boy," she exploded, "and I don't want to be in Malawi too long. I hope you can do something about Dakota soon."

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

"I can speed to Malawi as soon as I pack a snail, a Panama hat, and my bone."

"You'd better take a thumb drive too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he nattered lovingly.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed neatly out of the office. He stared tearfully after her.

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