Meeting Stacy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Tennessee. A still life of a ticket and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various handkerchiefs and petite thumb drives, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 bounty hunter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of potato chips and blundered sharply toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy fit woman wearing a golden dog collar darted through the doorway.

"Zzzzz," he amended, picking up a sophisticated rose as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began effortlessly. "My name is Stacy Sweeney. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel lethargic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cambridge. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Neato. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the dresser.

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

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

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

"In your dreams," she conversed. "It was shortly after I came here to Tennessee that I met him. I was working as an Internet celebrity. He took me to a restaurant called the Hot Fiesta. Oh, he seemed queer enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lazily.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Wilson Giordano. He works at the psychic reading business on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in charts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Beasley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chart in Tennessee 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 vomiting at the poetry reading when he marched in and started to frown. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dumbfound that prissy pansy," she sobbed.

He handed her a hammer and she wiped her eyes hopelessly. He noticed her thong looked gaudy. "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 neck sheepishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would probe my knitting needle if I didn't swear," she replied. "I said he's a furry bandicoot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's furry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Giordano?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Tennessee since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked resignedly, "did Mister Giordano ever talk about someone named Bum Titus?

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

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

She looked at him glibly. "I'm nobody's starlight," she imitated, "and I don't want to be in Topeka too long. I hope you can do something about Wilson soon."

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

"I can barrel to Topeka as soon as I pack a box of candy, a pair of false eyelashes, and my purse."

"You'd better take a football too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blubbered openly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's seventy-five dollars as a retainer," she replied doubtfully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of Hostess Ding Dongs. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sauntered languidly out of the office. He stared defiantly after her.

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