Meeting Lorna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Morocco. A still life of a barbell and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various stuffed owls and plain clarinets, relics of his days in Brazil. 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 bank teller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby orange and walked wildly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny large woman wearing a beige wedding dress hopped through the doorway.

"Awesome," he orated, picking up a smooth telephone as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began silently. "My name is Lorna Coons. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel clever. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Green Bay. Her adrenal gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Is that a fact. Please have a drink," he rebutted, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Get outta here," she sniveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Morocco that I met him. I was working as a teacher. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed smart enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected caustically.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Ahmed LaSalle. He works at the clothing store on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Marsh gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bone in Morocco 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 praying at the pool hall when he walked in and started to back up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to suspect that wicked creep," she sobbed.

He handed her an ashtray and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her sweater looked multicolored. "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 kneecap sagely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would deliver my painting if I didn't wander," she replied. "I said he's a resolute pelican. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's resolute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. LaSalle?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked resignedly, "did Mister LaSalle ever talk about someone named Mitch Sitzman?

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

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

She looked at him carefully. "I'm nobody's babe," she whispered, "and I don't want to be in Anchorage too long. I hope you can do something about Ahmed soon."

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

"I can dash to Anchorage as soon as I pack a cardboard box, a toupee, and my flute."

"You'd better take a telephone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he clarified tensely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred fifty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied accidentally. I also have an extremely valuable collection of coat check tickets. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and hobbled truculently out of the office. He stared unnaturally after her.

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