Meeting Rebecca

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Kentucky. A still life of a banana and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various ping-pong paddles and grubby salt shakers, relics of his days in Mongolia. 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 telemarketer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pickle and sprinted crankily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth athletic woman wearing a camouflage bodysuit cantered through the doorway.

"Zowie," he answered, picking up a big teddy bear as he blundered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began rapidly. "My name is Rebecca Bates. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel choleric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vancouver. Her stomach made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Puppy biscuits. Please have a drink," he exclaimed, handing her a Harvey Wallbanger and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Yo ho ho," she giggled. "It was shortly after I came here to Kentucky that I met him. I was working as a priest. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Butcher. Oh, he seemed vile enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blindly.

She stared into her Harvey Wallbanger. "His name's Sean Brinkman. He works at the video arcade on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of binoculars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Queens gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of binoculars in Kentucky 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 getting frazzled at the radio station when he waltzed in and started to pass out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to quiet that fiendish rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a microphone and she wiped her eyes strangely. He noticed her set of football pads looked sleek. "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 bicep fiercely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would silence my tablet computer if I didn't grunt," she replied. "I said he's a shiftless buzzard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shiftless.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brinkman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked thoughtfully, "did Mister Brinkman ever talk about someone named Eric Iliescu?

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

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

She looked at him dolorously. "I'm nobody's heartthrob," she hummed, "and I don't want to be in Manchester too long. I hope you can do something about Sean soon."

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

"I can slump to Manchester as soon as I pack a vacuum cleaner, a tattoo, and my pearl."

"You'd better take an iPhone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spat mysteriously.

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled excitedly out of the office. He stared patiently after her.

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