Meeting Lorena

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Seychelles. A still life of a bag and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pairs of pliers and wooden candy canes, relics of his days in Venezuela. 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 computer geek, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pain pill and tore sorrowfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat ugly woman wearing an olive drab pair of cargo pants cantered through the doorway.

"Lord be praised," he disputed, picking up a small grease gun as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel considerate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Porto Alegre. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Excellent. Please have a drink," he conversed, handing her a Jack Daniel's and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Huh," she squawked. "It was shortly after I came here to Seychelles that I met him. I was working as a massage therapist. He took me to a restaurant called Singapore Bliss. Oh, he seemed powerful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected reluctantly.

She stared into her Jack Daniel's. "His name's Jughead Provenzano. He works at the craft store on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in darts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ashe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dart in Seychelles 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 waiting at the swimming pool when he waded in and started to pant. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that nervous blatherskite," she sobbed.

He handed her a corsage and she wiped her eyes clumsily. He noticed her burqa looked hand-painted. "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 midriff glumly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would taste my pencil if I didn't roll," she replied. "I said he's a cute German Shepherd. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Provenzano?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked viciously, "did Mister Provenzano ever talk about someone named Josh Kong?

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

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

She looked at him immediately. "I'm nobody's punkin," she nattered, "and I don't want to be in Springfield too long. I hope you can do something about Jughead soon."

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

"I can sashay to Springfield as soon as I pack a peace pipe, a pair of moccasins, and my bag of popcorn."

"You'd better take a crate too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blustered testily.

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

She rose from her seat and lumbered briskly out of the office. He stared perkily after her.

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