Meeting Leonie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in South Africa. A still life of a map and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various corsages and expensive oriental vases, relics of his days in India. 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 gemcutter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby microscope and sidled joyously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump large woman wearing a lime-green set of camo fatigues swung through the doorway.

"Granular," he queried, picking up an excellent contrabassoon as he sped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gingerly. "My name is Leonie Webb. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shifty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gilbert. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Idiot. Please have a drink," he implored, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"For cryin' out loud," she recited. "It was shortly after I came here to South Africa that I met him. I was working as a bartender. He took me to a restaurant called In and Out Dog. Oh, he seemed sociable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lightly.

She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Sven Gray. He works at the bar on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in batteries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schmidt gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a battery in South Africa 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 chortling at the ski resort when he tumbled in and started to snort. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to harass that selfish scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a floppy disk and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her sarong looked musty. "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 tooth cheerfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would melt my accordion if I didn't whistle," she replied. "I said he's a mournful goblin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mournful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gray?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in South Africa since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cheerfully, "did Mister Gray ever talk about someone named Royce Barrett?

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

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

She looked at him nicely. "I'm nobody's bud," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Modesto too long. I hope you can do something about Sven soon."

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

"I can slump to Modesto as soon as I pack a Frisbee, a floppy hat, and my painting."

"You'd better take a paper towel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pointed out cleverly.

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

She rose from her seat and rushed truculently out of the office. He stared dubiously after her.

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