Meeting Lindsey

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 corncobs door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Kansas. A still life of a pom-pom and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various apples and crooked hacksaws, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 cardiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby top and zoomed energetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive smallish woman wearing a lavender evening gown waltzed through the doorway.

"Bless my britches," he phrased, picking up a greasy corncob as he tore to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nimbly. "My name is Lindsey Houston. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sarcastic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Winston-Salem. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Grrrrr. Please have a drink," he burbled, handing her a V8 and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Suffering sassafras," she nattered. "It was shortly after I came here to Kansas that I met him. I was working as a mason. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Farmer. Oh, he seemed tactful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sleepily.

She stared into her V8. "His name's Lucas Sheridan. He works at the pastry shop on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in helmets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Loring gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a helmet in Kansas 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 resting at the recycling bin when he staggered in and started to play solitaire. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to baffle that mindless gump," she sobbed.

He handed her a hockey puck and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her flour sack looked mechanical. "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 spleen sleepily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would roll my hot potato if I didn't raise an eyebrow," she replied. "I said he's a brassy dormouse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sheridan?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Kansas since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked softly, "did Mister Sheridan ever talk about someone named Gilbert Chang?

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

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

She looked at him unnaturally. "I'm nobody's snigglefritz," she smiled, "and I don't want to be in France too long. I hope you can do something about Lucas soon."

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

"I can waddle to France as soon as I pack a rubber stamp, a uniform, and my clipboard."

"You'd better take a bagpipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he phrased joyously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's sixty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied fiercely. I also have an extremely valuable collection of paper bags. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and trotted vacantly out of the office. He stared sorrowfully after her.

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