Meeting Anna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Concord. A still life of a can of shaving cream and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ping-pong paddles and striking skulls, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 singer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag and skidded gratefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony lanky woman wearing a metallic red black belt staggered through the doorway.

"Shame," he belched, picking up an aromatic shoe as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began excitedly. "My name is Anna Bruce. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cleveland. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Criminy. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her a Brandy Alexander and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"For Pete's sake," she said. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as a cook. He took me to a restaurant called the Copper Bison. Oh, he seemed obnoxious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected tensely.

She stared into her Brandy Alexander. "His name's Damien Shackleton. He works at the butcher shop on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fishing poles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Onassis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fishing pole in Concord 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 calming down at the beach when he bounced in and started to sneer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to analyze that wily airhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a compass and she wiped her eyes lovingly. He noticed her gun belt looked hand-carved. "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 claw miserably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would burn my crystal ball if I didn't glower," she replied. "I said he's a weird lion. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's weird.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shackleton?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Concord since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked glumly, "did Mister Shackleton ever talk about someone named Tony O'Sullivan?

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

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

She looked at him haughtily. "I'm nobody's pumpkin," she wondered, "and I don't want to be in Libya too long. I hope you can do something about Damien soon."

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

"I can dart to Libya as soon as I pack a paper bag, a space suit, and my paintbrush."

"You'd better take a bird cage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spouted deliberately.

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

She rose from her seat and breezed sagely out of the office. He stared sweetly after her.

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