Meeting Shannon

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Alabama. A still life of a calling card and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bats and hideous combs, 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 puppeteer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of candy and tramped ruefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic bald woman wearing a crimson pair of nylons walked through the doorway.

"Ka-ching," he sniveled, picking up a charming Helmholz resonator as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began flightily. "My name is Shannon McClain. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel petulant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pueblo. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gee whillikers. Please have a drink," he spoke up, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Nooo," she affirmed. "It was shortly after I came here to Alabama that I met him. I was working as a firefighter. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Chef. Oh, he seemed generous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected truculently.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Peter Lombardi. He works at the opera house on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in snails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Moore gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a snail in Alabama 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 flinching at the swimming pool when he sneaked in and started to creep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pinch that funny idiot," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigar and she wiped her eyes cruelly. He noticed her big grin looked flexible. "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 hoof gingerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would play with my calculator if I didn't shiver," she replied. "I said he's a peculiar pelican. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's peculiar.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lombardi?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked firmly, "did Mister Lombardi ever talk about someone named Rock Fritz?

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

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

She looked at him fondly. "I'm nobody's home boy," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in Sierra Leone too long. I hope you can do something about Peter soon."

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

"I can stalk to Sierra Leone as soon as I pack a rose, a pair of shorts, and my hockey puck."

"You'd better take a saddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he agreed resignedly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two dollars as a retainer," she replied perkily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of floppy disks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and tramped nonchalantly out of the office. He stared resignedly after her.

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