Meeting Latrina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Costa Rica. A still life of a jar of olives and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ropes and crisp ashtrays, relics of his days in Canada. 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 zookeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baseball bat and staggered resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky handsome woman wearing a purple sweatshirt rolled through the doorway.

"LOL," he breathed, picking up a damaged ticket as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began uselessly. "My name is Latrina Buckley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sleepy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Montgomery. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Diddly bunk. Please have a drink," he yammered, handing her a cup of Sanka and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Glaack," she responded. "It was shortly after I came here to Costa Rica that I met him. I was working as a pathologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Saloon. Oh, he seemed sinister enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected boldly.

She stared into her cup of Sanka. "His name's Nigel Eppley. He works at the jewelry store on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fish bowls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Booth gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fish bowl in Costa Rica 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 hollering at the health food store when he rushed in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to laugh at that unruffled old biddy," she sobbed.

He handed her a pack of gum and she wiped her eyes diligently. He noticed her wig looked jagged. "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 shoulder effortlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shrink my stapler if I didn't daydream," she replied. "I said he's an articulate poodle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's articulate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Eppley?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Costa Rica since then."

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

"Okay, so this Nigel Eppley 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 ankle like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and exhaled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Elizabeth Arden since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked madly, "did Mister Eppley ever talk about someone named Gavin Rinfield?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Booth operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, hot stuff, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice motor home in New Orleans. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him confidently. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she yammered, "and I don't want to be in New Orleans too long. I hope you can do something about Nigel soon."

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

"I can saunter to New Orleans as soon as I pack a dictionary, a sari, and my abacus."

"You'd better take a pail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he enunciated surreptitiously.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered boldly out of the office. He stared slyly after her.

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