Meeting Lillian

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Moldova. A still life of a Rubik's cube and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various towels and stuffed tubes of toothpaste, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 chemist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ball and bounded caustically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated redheaded woman wearing a pink ponytail bolted through the doorway.

"Yipes," he affirmed, picking up an original crate as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began unexpectedly. "My name is Lillian Bergstrom. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dependable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tallahassee. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "So sure. Please have a drink," he smirked, handing her a cup of hot chocolate and sitting down on the pillow.

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

"This is difficult for me," she disputed, glancing at the 'I'm with Stupid' shirt he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Cease and desist," she swore. "It was shortly after I came here to Moldova that I met him. I was working as a fitness trainer. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Butcher. Oh, he seemed wily enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected reluctantly.

She stared into her cup of hot chocolate. "His name's Isaac Clapper. He works at the electronics store on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of chalk."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Quintana gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of chalk in Moldova 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 wincing at the mall when he breezed in and started to dither. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to rebuff that demented poopyface," she sobbed.

He handed her a lemon and she wiped her eyes lazily. He noticed her pair of shorts looked porcelain. "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 waist queerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kick my toilet plunger if I didn't wait," she replied. "I said he's a sweet wallaby. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sweet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Clapper?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Moldova since then."

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

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

He sounded more cuddly than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his earlobe like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and stood by for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like rose petals since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked repeatedly, "did Mister Clapper ever talk about someone named Marty Hill?

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

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

She looked at him hopefully. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she yammered, "and I don't want to be in a ghetto too long. I hope you can do something about Isaac soon."

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

"I can lumber to a ghetto as soon as I pack a toothbrush, a cardigan, and my chart."

"You'd better take a pillow too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he shrieked kindly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-three dollars as a retainer," she replied daintily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of sea shells. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and scooted daintily out of the office. He stared nimbly after her.

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