Meeting Izzy

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

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

The office was adorned with various sea shells and electronic cigars, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 ecologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rock and swung neatly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny undersized woman wearing an orange jerkin rolled through the doorway.

"Blah blah blah," he stuttered, picking up a weird playing card as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ignobly. "My name is Izzy Overland. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bellicose. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Green Bay. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Like, totally. Please have a drink," he contended, handing her a martini and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"@#%#^@%$@!," she demanded. "It was shortly after I came here to Nepal that I met him. I was working as a funeral director. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Farmer. Oh, he seemed fierce enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected automatically.

She stared into her martini. "His name's Lee Shakewell. He works at the photography studio on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spittoons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Greco gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spittoon in Nepal 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 playing at the radio station when he proceeded in and started to stare. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to listen to that thoughtful weenie," she sobbed.

He handed her a chart and she wiped her eyes furiously. He noticed her bib looked golden. "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 finger sourly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fry my paper towel if I didn't murmur," she replied. "I said he's a lethargic eel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lethargic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shakewell?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked madly, "did Mister Shakewell ever talk about someone named Wesley Ping?

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

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

She looked at him repeatedly. "I'm nobody's toodleums," she yawned, "and I don't want to be in Botswana too long. I hope you can do something about Lee soon."

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

"I can inch to Botswana as soon as I pack a rock, a birthday suit, and my stack of papers."

"You'd better take a cigar too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he joked crossly.

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

She rose from her seat and skidded carelessly out of the office. He stared thankfully after her.

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