Meeting Sadie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in New Orleans. A still life of a rubber chicken and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various calculators and cotton pieces of candy, relics of his days in Israel. 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 millionaire, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird cage and crawled shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge small woman wearing a brilliant orange fedora crept through the doorway.

"Excuse me," he laughed, picking up a dirty fishing rod as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel evil. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fort Collins. Her big toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ten-four. Please have a drink," he answered, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the pillow.

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

"This is difficult for me," she persisted, 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 properly.

"Alley oop," she imitated. "It was shortly after I came here to New Orleans that I met him. I was working as an organist. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Platter. Oh, he seemed proud enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lightly.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Mark Spence. He works at the boutique on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pearls."

"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 a pearl in New Orleans 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 fretting at the beach when he ran in and started to swear. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to punch that insane simpleton," she sobbed.

He handed her a deck of cards and she wiped her eyes warmly. He noticed her bikini looked tiny. "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 jaw dolorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would honor my chess set if I didn't freak out," she replied. "I said he's a sophisticated gorilla. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sophisticated.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Spence?"

"Only a day; I've only been in New Orleans since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked urgently, "did Mister Spence ever talk about someone named Alex Houston?

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

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

She looked at him nonchalantly. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she comforted, "and I don't want to be in Tehran too long. I hope you can do something about Mark soon."

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

"I can blunder to Tehran as soon as I pack a plaque, a ponytail, and my toolbox."

"You'd better take an ashtray too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he trumpeted strangely.

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

She rose from her seat and crept grandly out of the office. He stared sourly after her.

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