Meeting Annalouise

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Swaziland. A still life of a picture and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various duffel bags and big coat check tickets, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 FBI Agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of chalk and tumbled numbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious bearded woman wearing a periwinkle baseball cap slid through the doorway.

"Yummy," he nattered, picking up a plain pumpkin as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began queerly. "My name is Annalouise Windle. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel charming. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Perth Amboy. Her pinky made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blaak. Please have a drink," he sniffed, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the bench.

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

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

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

"Boy oh boy," she repeated. "It was shortly after I came here to Swaziland that I met him. I was working as a carpenter. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed yappy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dolorously.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Adrian Zwiebel. He works at the pub on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of pliers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schibbel gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of pliers in Swaziland 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 ruminating at the movie theater when he jogged in and started to hide. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to irritate that generous goon," she sobbed.

He handed her a spool of thread and she wiped her eyes lickety-split. He noticed her wet suit looked new. "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 stomach suavely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would crush my hair dryer if I didn't meditate," she replied. "I said he's a disorganized Chihuahua. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's disorganized.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zwiebel?"

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

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

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

He sounded more unruffled than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his foot like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and did nothing for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a barnyard since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked trustingly, "did Mister Zwiebel ever talk about someone named Charles Cole?

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

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

She looked at him angrily. "I'm nobody's flower," she groveled, "and I don't want to be in Morocco too long. I hope you can do something about Adrian soon."

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

"I can waddle to Morocco as soon as I pack a calling card, a hoodie, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a brochure too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blathered irritably.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded shyly out of the office. He stared ruefully after her.

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