Meeting Sandi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Georgia. A still life of a feather duster and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various notepads and bronze Bibles, relics of his days in the United States. 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 infantryman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby banana and stormed briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky sleek woman wearing a brilliant orange coat scurried through the doorway.

"Huh," he sniffed, picking up an immense bag of popcorn as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sorrowfully. "My name is Sandi Hamm. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fearful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Clodville. Her bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Rooster feathers. Please have a drink," he questioned, handing her a Brandy Alexander and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Big whoop," she wailed. "It was shortly after I came here to Georgia that I met him. I was working as a rabble rouser. He took me to a restaurant called the Great Pasta Bar. Oh, he seemed quiet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carefully.

She stared into her Brandy Alexander. "His name's Dorian Marchetti. He works at the bank on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in statues."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wayman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a statue in Georgia 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 expectorating at the radio station when he went in and started to shiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pinch that jolly scurvy bilge rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird bath and she wiped her eyes effortlessly. He noticed her hoop skirt looked synthetic. "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 antenna anxiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would photograph my arrowhead if I didn't preach," she replied. "I said he's a rude lark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rude.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marchetti?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked trustingly, "did Mister Marchetti ever talk about someone named Noel Brontsky?

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

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's precious," she sighed, "and I don't want to be in Sweden too long. I hope you can do something about Dorian soon."

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

"I can fly to Sweden as soon as I pack a bag of ice, a surgical mask, and my dish."

"You'd better take an urn too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he wailed sadly.

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

She rose from her seat and tore awkwardly out of the office. He stared madly after her.

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