Meeting Antonia

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

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

The office was cluttered with various coins and plastic pieces of chalk, relics of his days in Greece. 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 mediator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby calling card and skipped blissfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby spindly woman wearing a navy blue headscarf waltzed through the doorway.

"Like fun," he invited, picking up a flexible dead dingo as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began violently. "My name is Antonia Gong. 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 Rochester. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokeroo. Please have a drink," he spewed, handing her a glass of champagne and sitting down on the cupboard.

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

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

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

"Hold your horses," she blubbered. "It was shortly after I came here to Louisiana that I met him. I was working as a cellist. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Tiger. Oh, he seemed melancholic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wearily.

She stared into her glass of champagne. "His name's Morton Brazil. He works at the liquor store on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in accordions."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dewey gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an accordion in Louisiana 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 vegetating at the rock concert when he swung in and started to get along. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ostracize that wily devil," she sobbed.

He handed her a saddle and she wiped her eyes clumsily. He noticed her kimono looked big. "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 thigh openly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swipe my coin if I didn't knit," she replied. "I said he's a stinky salamander. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stinky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brazil?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Louisiana since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked deftly, "did Mister Brazil ever talk about someone named Irving Weaver?

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

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

She looked at him timidly. "I'm nobody's twinkles," she begged, "and I don't want to be in Sweden too long. I hope you can do something about Morton soon."

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

"I can blunder to Sweden as soon as I pack a bouquet, a pair of sweatpants, and my paper bag."

"You'd better take a peach too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spouted slowly.

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

She rose from her seat and leapt violently out of the office. He stared uselessly after her.

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