Meeting Eppie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Athens. A still life of a spoon and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bird baths and fancy protest signs, relics of his days in Cameroon. 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 government agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Band-aid and waded thoughtfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout homely woman wearing a beige pair of UGGs darted through the doorway.

"Touché," he phrased, picking up a plain whoopee cushion as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began firmly. "My name is Eppie Al-Ghareeb. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stinky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Portland. Her eyelash made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy frijole. Please have a drink," he debated, handing her a glass of wine and sitting down on the four-poster bed.

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

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

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

"Tut-tut," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Athens that I met him. I was working as a weatherman. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Pan. Oh, he seemed melancholic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected immediately.

She stared into her glass of wine. "His name's Harley Truong. He works at the pet shop on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in air compressors."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barcelo gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an air compressor in Athens 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 slobbering at the bedroom when he waded in and started to chatter. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to doubt that sexy stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a whistle and she wiped her eyes irritably. He noticed her bridal gown looked porcelain. "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 abdomen confidently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would break my curling iron if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's a merry lamb. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's merry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Truong?"

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

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

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

He sounded more colorless than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his spine like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and flushed 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 solemnly, "did Mister Truong ever talk about someone named Everett Nix?

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

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

She looked at him rapidly. "I'm nobody's sunshine," she murmured, "and I don't want to be in Alabama too long. I hope you can do something about Harley soon."

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

"I can amble to Alabama as soon as I pack a pepper grinder, a Panama hat, and my tablet computer."

"You'd better take a can of soup too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he preached menacingly.

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

She rose from her seat and slid strangely out of the office. He stared innocently after her.

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