Meeting Nancy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Vanatu. A still life of a protest sign and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bicycles and bent maps, relics of his days in Haiti. 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 calligrapher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby top and flounced strangely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge dark woman wearing a jet black gas mask sailed through the doorway.

"Ten-four," he conversed, picking up a speckled blanket as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stupidly. "My name is Nancy Morgan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conceited. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tunis. Her back made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Turn blue. Please have a drink," he recited, handing her a glass of Kool-Aid and sitting down on the wine rack.

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

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

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

"I'm outta here," she gabbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Vanatu that I met him. I was working as a radiologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Asian Mess Hall. Oh, he seemed stylish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shyly.

She stared into her glass of Kool-Aid. "His name's Eduardo Simmons. He works at the pizza joint on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bedpans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Yoshida gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bedpan in Vanatu 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 itching at the carnival when he zoomed in and started to expectorate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pulverize that radiant demon," she sobbed.

He handed her a toothbrush and she wiped her eyes fondly. He noticed her pair of contact lenses looked delicate. "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 funny bone frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would burn my hand puppet if I didn't chuckle," she replied. "I said he's a conceited pelican. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's conceited.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simmons?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Vanatu since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fondly, "did Mister Simmons ever talk about someone named Shawn Oglesby?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Yoshida operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, baby-cakes, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice motor home in Albania. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him shakily. "I'm nobody's baby-cakes," she wondered, "and I don't want to be in Albania too long. I hope you can do something about Eduardo soon."

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

"I can trot to Albania as soon as I pack a soccer ball, an 'I'm with Stupid' shirt, and my fork."

"You'd better take an avocado too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pointed out nervously.

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

She rose from her seat and marched kindly out of the office. He stared wryly after her.

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