Meeting Lottie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Rwanda. A still life of a chamber pot and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various iPhones and mysterious candy canes, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 plumber, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby campaign sign and hopped violently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous pimply woman wearing a beige parka sidled through the doorway.

"Yowie," he rebutted, picking up a prickly basket as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began recklessly. "My name is Lottie Hartford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel resolute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bangkok. Her horn made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Excellent. Please have a drink," he acknowledged, handing her a kamikaze and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"Whee," she explained. "It was shortly after I came here to Rwanda that I met him. I was working as a bank robber. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Galaxy. Oh, he seemed creepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected patiently.

She stared into her kamikaze. "His name's Garth Harris. He works at the movie theater on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tennis rackets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the MacDonald gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tennis racket in Rwanda 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 groaning at the poetry reading when he swaggered in and started to get rigid. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to listen to that maniacal scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a bagpipe and she wiped her eyes thoughtfully. He noticed her nightgown looked tiny. "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 piehole nimbly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dispose of my accordion if I didn't suffer," she replied. "I said he's a resolute dingo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's resolute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Harris?"

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

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

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

He sounded more tactful than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his gall bladder like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and sweated for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a stagnant pond since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Harris ever talk about someone named Russell Barton?

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

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

She looked at him bitterly. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she spat, "and I don't want to be in Grand Rapids too long. I hope you can do something about Garth soon."

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

"I can tramp to Grand Rapids as soon as I pack a stuffed owl, a pair of knickerbockers, and my pen."

"You'd better take a bird bath too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he groveled tearfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred ninety-six dollars as a retainer," she replied fiercely. I also have an extremely valuable collection of houseplants. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and padded wryly out of the office. He stared coolly after her.

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