Meeting Lindy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Yemen. A still life of a stopwatch and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various baby dolls and dry combs, relics of his days in Cameroon. 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 courier, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Rubik's cube and proceeded narrowly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous good looking woman wearing a sea green sari tiptoed through the doorway.

"Dang," he proposed, picking up an ancient pepper grinder as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Lindy Bishop. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel funny. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lake Placid. Her knee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ahem. Please have a drink," he quoted, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the workbench.

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

"This is difficult for me," she griped, glancing at the pair of toe shoes he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Drat," she muttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Yemen that I met him. I was working as a flutist. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Bakery. Oh, he seemed somber enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sweetly.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Preston Prang. He works at the perfumery on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fire hoses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fretwell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fire hose in Yemen 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 turning blue at the pool hall when he sneaked in and started to squeak. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spit at that cheerful floozy," she sobbed.

He handed her a crate and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her poodle skirt looked authentic. "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 gruffly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smash my towel if I didn't wail," she replied. "I said he's a radiant fox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's radiant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Prang?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Yemen since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ingeniously, "did Mister Prang ever talk about someone named Rip Nurbabayev?

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

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

She looked at him gratefully. "I'm nobody's dearie," she yelped, "and I don't want to be in Sapporo too long. I hope you can do something about Preston soon."

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

"I can stagger to Sapporo as soon as I pack a fountain pen, a poncho, and my toy."

"You'd better take a cigar too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he burbled queerly.

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

She rose from her seat and traipsed offhandedly out of the office. He stared later after her.

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