Meeting Roberta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Sierra Leone. A still life of a chart and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Helmholz resonators and polished screwdrivers, relics of his days in Finland. 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 groundskeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby urn and blundered tearfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous brown-eyed woman wearing an olive green big grin galloped through the doorway.

"Hee haw," he remarked, picking up a frilly boomerang as he danced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quickly. "My name is Roberta van Dorn. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel eccentric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manitoba. Her bicep made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Barf. Please have a drink," he acknowledged, handing her an Irish Coffee and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Anyhoo," she sobbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Sierra Leone that I met him. I was working as a secretary. He took me to a restaurant called Presidential Peacock. Oh, he seemed sleepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her Irish Coffee. "His name's Lawrence Vickers. He works at the art museum on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wrenches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Orman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wrench in Sierra Leone 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 staring into space at the health club when he scurried in and started to watch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe in that puzzled prattling gabbler," she sobbed.

He handed her a boomerang and she wiped her eyes recklessly. He noticed her coonskin hat looked worn. "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 back angrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would analyze my telephone if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a happy Doberman. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's happy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vickers?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Sierra Leone since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grudgingly, "did Mister Vickers ever talk about someone named Travis Milenski?

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

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

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's swizzle," she remarked, "and I don't want to be in Hong Kong too long. I hope you can do something about Lawrence soon."

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

"I can speed to Hong Kong as soon as I pack a clipboard, a fedora, and my trash can."

"You'd better take a dollhouse too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he jeered dolorously.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped hysterically out of the office. He stared grandly after her.

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