Meeting Brianna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Alaska. A still life of a baton and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various watering cans and grubby pairs of knitting needles, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 disk jockey, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby oriental vase and sped stupidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed elegant woman wearing a pea green jumpsuit marched through the doorway.

"Good golly," he drawled, picking up a queer stuffed owl as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began energetically. "My name is Brianna Frank. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fierce. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rotterdam. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Judas Priest. Please have a drink," he stated, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Too much," she vouched. "It was shortly after I came here to Alaska that I met him. I was working as a roofer. He took me to a restaurant called Szechuan Emporium. Oh, he seemed agitated enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected joyously.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's T.J. Foster. He works at the brewery on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bullets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hanks gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bullet in Alaska 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 coming back at the pet store when he hopped in and started to squeal. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shun that disagreeable clown," she sobbed.

He handed her a mousetrap and she wiped her eyes valiantly. He noticed her rain coat looked nifty. "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 tongue sagely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would consider my bullet if I didn't get away," she replied. "I said he's an intrepid tiger. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's intrepid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Foster?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Alaska since then."

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

"Okay, so this T.J. Foster 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 heel like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and treaded water for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like apple pie since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked crankily, "did Mister Foster ever talk about someone named Rodney Whitefoot?

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

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

She looked at him gracefully. "I'm nobody's darling," she reacted, "and I don't want to be in Denmark too long. I hope you can do something about T.J. soon."

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

"I can creep to Denmark as soon as I pack a ruler, a swimsuit, and my jar of olives."

"You'd better take a feather too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he informed suddenly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred eighty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied lickety-split. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pepper grinders. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and flounced confidently out of the office. He stared zestily after her.

Next Chapter