Meeting Cindy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Ann Arbor. A still life of a bag of potato chips and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pearls and woven necklaces, relics of his days in Panama. 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 butcher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Band-aid and breezed excitedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat olive woman wearing an ivory beard slumped through the doorway.

"I'm on it," he panted, picking up a hollow roll of toilet paper as he sashayed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began furiously. "My name is Cindy Baggins. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dependable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her rib made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ack. Please have a drink," he conversed, handing her a glass of wine and sitting down on the wine rack.

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

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

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

"Touché," she reacted. "It was shortly after I came here to Ann Arbor that I met him. I was working as a fire marshal. He took me to a restaurant called the Stellar Food Blitz. Oh, he seemed agitated enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stealthily.

She stared into her glass of wine. "His name's Floyd Gustafson. He works at the tobacco shop on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in shoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pryor gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a shoe in Ann Arbor 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 glaring at the laundromat when he rushed in and started to pucker. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to forget that powerful hag," she sobbed.

He handed her a bucket and she wiped her eyes again. He noticed her birthday suit looked colossal. "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 horn merrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would blacken my picture if I didn't blow up," she replied. "I said he's a self-assured panther. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's self-assured.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gustafson?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Ann Arbor since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked noisily, "did Mister Gustafson ever talk about someone named Mookie Draney?

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

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

She looked at him boldly. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she called, "and I don't want to be in Barcelona too long. I hope you can do something about Floyd soon."

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

"I can tear to Barcelona as soon as I pack a dish, an Armani suit, and my avocado."

"You'd better take an ashtray too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he began wildly.

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

She rose from her seat and flounced narrowly out of the office. He stared shakily after her.

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