Meeting Bunny

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Kiev. A still life of a peach and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various footballs and bronze yo-yos, relics of his days in Guatemala. 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 bank teller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby painting and galloped gratefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine pretty woman wearing a scarlet pair of bell-bottoms bounded through the doorway.

"Gee whillikers," he began, picking up a woven cactus plant as he crawled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began truculently. "My name is Bunny Easton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hungry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Podunk Hollow. Her nose made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good golly. Please have a drink," he babbled, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"Barf," she griped. "It was shortly after I came here to Kiev that I met him. I was working as an acrobat. He took me to a restaurant called the Lucky Terrace. Oh, he seemed dreadful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected irritably.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Ichabod Santos. He works at the ice cream parlor on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Bunsen burners."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Johnston gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Bunsen burner in Kiev 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 talking at the library when he sailed in and started to huff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scream at that athletic ghoul," she sobbed.

He handed her a playing card and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her pair of boxing gloves looked speckled. "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 neck frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tweak my teapot if I didn't back up," she replied. "I said he's a tactful parrot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tactful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Santos?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Kiev since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked bitterly, "did Mister Santos ever talk about someone named Greg Kong?

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

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

She looked at him delicately. "I'm nobody's cutie-patootie," she peeped, "and I don't want to be in Bagdad too long. I hope you can do something about Ichabod soon."

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

"I can swagger to Bagdad as soon as I pack a knitting needle, a derby, and my needle and thread."

"You'd better take a wrench too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he murmured doubtfully.

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

She rose from her seat and lumbered unabashedly out of the office. He stared awkwardly after her.

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