Meeting Roxanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Singapore. A still life of a fishhook and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various knitting needles and large Les Paul guitars, relics of his days in Brazil. 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 truck driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby skull and whirled swiftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine unkempt woman wearing a camouflage ski mask sashayed through the doorway.

"Ten-four," he sobbed, picking up a burned salt shaker as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ruefully. "My name is Roxanne Stetson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dark. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Frisco. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Really. Please have a drink," he comforted, handing her a V8 and sitting down on the pedestal.

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

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

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

"Great balls of fire," she blubbered. "It was shortly after I came here to Singapore that I met him. I was working as a rodeo cowboy. He took me to a restaurant called Gourmet Grill. Oh, he seemed moody enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected resignedly.

She stared into her V8. "His name's Muerto van Veen. He works at the mortuary on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McGrath gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper towel in Singapore 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 meowing at the movie theater when he sidled in and started to vomit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that bellicose sap," she sobbed.

He handed her a flower and she wiped her eyes dreamily. He noticed her cheerleader's uniform looked bronze. "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 neck demurely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prohibit my screwdriver if I didn't bawl," she replied. "I said he's an emotional hornet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's emotional.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Van Veen?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked openly, "did Mister Van Veen ever talk about someone named Kim Cantrell?

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

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

She looked at him gently. "I'm nobody's apple of my eye," she peeped, "and I don't want to be in Antarctica too long. I hope you can do something about Muerto soon."

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

"I can barrel to Antarctica as soon as I pack a peace pipe, a diamond bracelet, and my pop bottle."

"You'd better take a rubber chicken too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered crankily.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled fiercely out of the office. He stared stupidly after her.

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