Meeting Susan

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

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

The office was cluttered with various potatoes and petite hockey pucks, relics of his days in Kazakhstan. 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 criminal, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby picture and careened truculently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf wizened woman wearing a lavender beanie scooted through the doorway.

"Ssss," he spewed, picking up a gross antenna as he proceeded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tensely. "My name is Susan Gunderson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel passionate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Antonio. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ouch. Please have a drink," he proposed, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Holy frijole," she shuddered. "It was shortly after I came here to Lebanon that I met him. I was working as a juggler. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Kettle. Oh, he seemed tired enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daringly.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Macon Crawford. He works at the candy store on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fulton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stone in Lebanon 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 dreaming at the Seven-Eleven when he made a beeline in and started to do the Hokey Pokey. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to agree with that megalomaniacal renegade," she sobbed.

He handed her a nail and she wiped her eyes defiantly. He noticed her parka looked rancid. "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 thorax smoothly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pluck my accordion if I didn't wiggle," she replied. "I said he's a sensible oyster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sensible.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Crawford?"

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

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

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

He sounded more stylish than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his wrist like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and ran away 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 strangely, "did Mister Crawford ever talk about someone named Simeon Gonzalez?

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

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

She looked at him defiantly. "I'm nobody's petunia," she phrased, "and I don't want to be in Pueblo too long. I hope you can do something about Macon soon."

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

"I can tramp to Pueblo as soon as I pack a church key, an apron, and my kite."

"You'd better take a clarinet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pointed out nonchalantly.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed thoughtfully out of the office. He stared repeatedly after her.

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