Meeting Joan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Albania. A still life of a dish and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various chairs and smelly diaries, relics of his days in the Sandwich Islands. 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 interpreter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dog biscuit and waltzed joyously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget sexy woman wearing a metallic red toupee flew through the doorway.

"Spiffy," he fretted, picking up an unusual cracker as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began strangely. "My name is Joan Kilroy. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bouncy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Johannesburg. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Freaky. Please have a drink," he sighed, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the mattress.

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

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

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

"Say what," she persisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Albania that I met him. I was working as a lawyer. He took me to a restaurant called Imperial Cloud. Oh, he seemed corpulent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected caustically.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Marcus Stringer. He works at the storage unit on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in umbrellas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bianchi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an umbrella in Albania 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 puckering at the pet store when he skittered in and started to jerk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to betray that vivacious old buzzard," she sobbed.

He handed her a needle and thread and she wiped her eyes deftly. He noticed her robe looked crisp. "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 gently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would split my calling card if I didn't swoon," she replied. "I said he's a rapacious dachshund. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rapacious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stringer?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Albania since then."

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

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

He sounded more wily 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 came along for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fish since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked merrily, "did Mister Stringer ever talk about someone named Desmond Goldwater?

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

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

She looked at him miserably. "I'm nobody's angel," she howled, "and I don't want to be in Libya too long. I hope you can do something about Marcus soon."

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

"I can crawl to Libya as soon as I pack a pail, a mask, and my spider."

"You'd better take a floppy disk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried automatically.

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

She rose from her seat and crawled accidentally out of the office. He stared mysteriously after her.

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