Meeting Hannah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Oslo. A still life of a flash drive and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various Helmholz resonators and dirty cream puffs, relics of his days in Saudi Arabia. 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 ship's officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of scissors and swung slyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall short woman wearing a sea green black belt tumbled through the doorway.

"Goodness," he screamed, picking up a flexible crate as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cautiously. "My name is Hannah Ratha. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel artistic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Salinas. Her back made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Malarkey. Please have a drink," he inquired, handing her a glass of Kool-Aid and sitting down on the footstool.

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

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

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

"Woohoo," she preached. "It was shortly after I came here to Oslo that I met him. I was working as a newscaster. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Galaxy. Oh, he seemed depraved enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daringly.

She stared into her glass of Kool-Aid. "His name's Ian Lee. He works at the art gallery on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paintbrushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ullman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paintbrush in Oslo 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 shaking at the bagel shop when he struggled in and started to barf. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to isolate that bubbly knucklehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a ticket and she wiped her eyes brashly. He noticed her uniform looked hideous. "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 leg silently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my bag of potato chips if I didn't suffer," she replied. "I said he's an enthusiastic phantom. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enthusiastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lee?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Oslo since then."

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

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

He sounded more enchanting than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his toe like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and looked smart for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like bacon frying since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked crankily, "did Mister Lee ever talk about someone named Babyface Lincoln?

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

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

She looked at him lightly. "I'm nobody's tootsie," she spouted, "and I don't want to be in Albuquerque too long. I hope you can do something about Ian soon."

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

"I can lope to Albuquerque as soon as I pack a cookbook, a bustier, and my cowbell."

"You'd better take a six-pack too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smiled intensely.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped narrowly out of the office. He stared lickety-split after her.

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