Meeting Shannon

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in New Haven. A still life of a hair dryer and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various protest signs and broken coupons, relics of his days in Afghanistan. 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 bookkeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pail and stormed briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth elderly woman wearing a burgundy bustier danced through the doorway.

"Lord be praised," he yammered, picking up a cotton apple as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cautiously. "My name is Shannon Roberts. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel miniscule. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Brasilia. Her jaw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yay. Please have a drink," he agreed, handing her a gin fizz and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Shame," she pleaded. "It was shortly after I came here to New Haven that I met him. I was working as an archeologist. He took me to a restaurant called New York Bar & Grill. Oh, he seemed creepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected slyly.

She stared into her gin fizz. "His name's Fabien Hruska. He works at the pet shop on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in corsages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Chesney gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a corsage in New Haven 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 yawning at the tanning salon when he slunk in and started to twitch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lead that obedient coward," she sobbed.

He handed her a candle and she wiped her eyes sarcastically. He noticed her wizard's hat 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 eye temperamentally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would manage my firecracker if I didn't cheer," she replied. "I said he's a lanky goose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lanky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hruska?"

"Only a week; I've only been in New Haven since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked slowly, "did Mister Hruska ever talk about someone named Louie Dion?

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

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

She looked at him lamely. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she called, "and I don't want to be in Kuwait too long. I hope you can do something about Fabien soon."

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

"I can reel to Kuwait as soon as I pack an iPod, a derby, and my sponge."

"You'd better take a stapler too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he wept tearfully.

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

She rose from her seat and straggled repeatedly out of the office. He stared energetically after her.

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