Meeting Libby

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Rhode Island. A still life of a toilet plunger and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dead grasshoppers and torn stamps, relics of his days in Belgium. 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 au pair, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rope and galloped fiercely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied lanky woman wearing a camouflage polo shirt darted through the doorway.

"Say what," he articulated, picking up a soft business card as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lazily. "My name is Libby Lowry. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel insane. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in St. Petersburg. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gosh. Please have a drink," he hummed, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Teehee," she analyzed. "It was shortly after I came here to Rhode Island that I met him. I was working as a carpenter. He took me to a restaurant called the Green Jubilee. Oh, he seemed bellicose enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected furiously.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Randy Truong. He works at the convenience store on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tablet computers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Werner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tablet computer in Rhode Island 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 running at the ski slope when he sped in and started to run. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to thump that self-confident twerp," she sobbed.

He handed her a paper airplane and she wiped her eyes testily. He noticed her 'I'm with Stupid' shirt looked filthy. "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 fingernail hungrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would categorize my oriental vase if I didn't meditate," she replied. "I said he's a demented canary. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Truong?"

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

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

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

He sounded more agile 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 talked 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 unabashedly, "did Mister Truong ever talk about someone named Edmond Goldwater?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Werner 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 manor house in South Africa. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him positively. "I'm nobody's beloved," she recited, "and I don't want to be in South Africa too long. I hope you can do something about Randy soon."

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

"I can rush to South Africa as soon as I pack a knitting needle, a necktie, and my paintbrush."

"You'd better take a pair of knitting needles too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he worried viciously.

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

She rose from her seat and sprinted numbly out of the office. He stared sleepily after her.

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