Meeting Alicia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Afghanistan. A still life of a baton and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cameras and golden salt shakers, relics of his days in Russia. 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 clarinetist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stick of gum and careened cruelly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty graceful woman wearing a brilliant orange cocktail dress jogged through the doorway.

"That's crazy talk," he comforted, picking up a stolen cane as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sarcastically. "My name is Alicia Ecklund. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hysterical. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cape Town. Her front tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fie. Please have a drink," he boomed, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Whoopee," she whimpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Afghanistan that I met him. I was working as a draftsman. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Basket. Oh, he seemed vile enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wryly.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Ian Lundy. He works at the gift shop on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of headphones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Emmons gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of headphones in Afghanistan 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 snarling at the spelling bee when he padded in and started to blow up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cozy up to that prickly poopyhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a cage and she wiped her eyes stupidly. He noticed her black armband looked flaky. "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 esophagus hungrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dye my suitcase if I didn't laugh," she replied. "I said he's a selfish jackal. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's selfish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lundy?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Afghanistan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quickly, "did Mister Lundy ever talk about someone named Cosmo Gray?

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

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

She looked at him reluctantly. "I'm nobody's honey-babe," she groveled, "and I don't want to be in Modesto too long. I hope you can do something about Ian soon."

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

"I can scoot to Modesto as soon as I pack a rose, a pair of pantaloons, and my rubber stamp."

"You'd better take a Barbie doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he simpered happily.

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

She rose from her seat and capered temperamentally out of the office. He stared frenetically after her.

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