Meeting Fiona

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Angola. A still life of a ruler and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pairs of fuzzy dice and used packages, relics of his days in the Congo. 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 weatherman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flashlight and rushed shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous white woman wearing a silver hoop skirt struggled through the doorway.

"Brrr," he cackled, picking up a primitive shoe as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began thoughtfully. "My name is Fiona Thor. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dowdy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Perth Amboy. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fribblenootums. Please have a drink," he chuckled, handing her a glass of lemonade and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Good grief," she sputtered. "It was shortly after I came here to Angola that I met him. I was working as a makeup artist. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed apoplectic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected mysteriously.

She stared into her glass of lemonade. "His name's Eric Greenside. He works at the art museum on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spools of thread."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rudd gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spool of thread in Angola 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 dreaming at the city park when he darted in and started to preach. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe that noxious cur," she sobbed.

He handed her a candle and she wiped her eyes strictly. He noticed her pair of cowboy boots looked overgrown. "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 ego dreamily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ignore my beach ball if I didn't blink," she replied. "I said he's a dumb opossum. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dumb.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Greenside?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Angola since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked surreptitiously, "did Mister Greenside ever talk about someone named Tony Dillman?

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

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

She looked at him wildly. "I'm nobody's mon bébé," she fumed, "and I don't want to be in the Marshall Islands too long. I hope you can do something about Eric soon."

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

"I can caper to the Marshall Islands as soon as I pack an acorn, a wristwatch, and my vase."

"You'd better take a fishhook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he appealed doubtfully.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped numbly out of the office. He stared clumsily after her.

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