Meeting Susanna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Orlando. A still life of a hair brush and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various toilet plungers and archaic pink flamingoes, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 surgeon, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby file folder and careened madly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine gangling woman wearing a magenta armband stormed through the doorway.

"Shame," he sighed, picking up a dry hacksaw as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began briskly. "My name is Susanna Anderson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bouncy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bucharest. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yay. Please have a drink," he intimated, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"I'm sure," she hinted. "It was shortly after I came here to Orlando that I met him. I was working as a sailor. He took me to a restaurant called the Green Home. Oh, he seemed impish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected anxiously.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Beelzebub Spence. He works at the antique store on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in campaign signs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bowers gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a campaign sign in Orlando 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 collapsing at the Wal-Mart when he whirled in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sneer at that excitable slacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle and she wiped her eyes queerly. He noticed her class ring looked hideous. "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 tail narrowly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would freeze my Lego set if I didn't play solitaire," she replied. "I said he's a queer cockatiel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's queer.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Spence?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Orlando since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked charmingly, "did Mister Spence ever talk about someone named André Sokolov?

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

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

She looked at him automatically. "I'm nobody's cutie," she declaimed, "and I don't want to be in Burbank too long. I hope you can do something about Beelzebub soon."

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

"I can dive to Burbank as soon as I pack a shovel, a fig leaf, and my skull."

"You'd better take a mousetrap too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spat crazily.

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

She rose from her seat and sauntered peevishly out of the office. He stared proudly after her.

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