Meeting Sandi

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

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

The office was adorned with various watering cans and speckled cigars, relics of his days in China. 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 guitarist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby peace pipe and padded quietly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny neat woman wearing an amber pair of sweatpants set out through the doorway.

"Alley oop," he accused, picking up an authentic baseball as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began brashly. "My name is Sandi Yamaguchi. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel repulsive. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cologne. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eeshk. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the futon.

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

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

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

"Hell's bells," she warbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Bakersfield that I met him. I was working as a park ranger. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed fuzzy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected languidly.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's José Broderick. He works at the cigar store on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in jars of olives."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Goldwater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a jar of olives in Bakersfield 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 getting rigid at the juice shop when he strode in and started to digest. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to astonish that cheerful clod," she sobbed.

He handed her a diagram and she wiped her eyes boldly. He noticed her ribbon looked large. "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 thyroid gland majestically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fortify my doily if I didn't whistle," she replied. "I said he's a confident Doberman. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Broderick?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Bakersfield since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked openly, "did Mister Broderick ever talk about someone named Lucas Oldfather?

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

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

She looked at him diligently. "I'm nobody's beloved," she squealed, "and I don't want to be in a ghetto too long. I hope you can do something about José soon."

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

"I can gallop to a ghetto as soon as I pack an iPod, a sari, and my cage."

"You'd better take a Van Gogh too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yelled offhandedly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied madly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of toilet seats. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and zipped unnaturally out of the office. He stared nonchalantly after her.

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