Meeting Ana

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Pittsburgh. A still life of a dart and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Hostess Ding Dongs and grubby snails, relics of his days in Cameroon. 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 private investigator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of paper and scampered impatiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly blond woman wearing a golden set of pink foam curlers darted through the doorway.

"Is that a fact," he fantasized, picking up a prickly blank check as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began boisterously. "My name is Ana Booth. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Torrance. Her hip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Arrrgh. Please have a drink," he interpreted, handing her a Cuba libre and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"For Pete's sake," she scoffed. "It was shortly after I came here to Pittsburgh that I met him. I was working as a coin collector. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Winery. Oh, he seemed ambitious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unexpectedly.

She stared into her Cuba libre. "His name's Bruno Hanson. He works at the art museum on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cowbells."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cannon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cowbell in Pittsburgh 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 nodding at the disco when he ran in and started to shrivel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chase that repulsive oddball," she sobbed.

He handed her a coloring book and she wiped her eyes cheerfully. He noticed her garland looked shiny. "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 hoof trustingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would mend my can of soup if I didn't itch," she replied. "I said he's a self-confident warthog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's self-confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hanson?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Pittsburgh since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ingeniously, "did Mister Hanson ever talk about someone named Jared Cohen?

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

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

She looked at him suavely. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she vouched, "and I don't want to be in Anchorage too long. I hope you can do something about Bruno soon."

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

"I can waddle to Anchorage as soon as I pack a cage, a bomber jacket, and my fishing pole."

"You'd better take a carrot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rationalized recklessly.

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

She rose from her seat and dove dubiously out of the office. He stared unexpectedly after her.

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