Meeting Wendy

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 vases door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Wyoming. A still life of a candle and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various wrenches and spongy pepper grinders, relics of his days in Iran. 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 warehouse picker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bell and set out neatly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin pallid woman wearing a red winter coat inched through the doorway.

"Good gravy," he disputed, picking up a rancid sea shell as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began pitifully. "My name is Wendy Onassis. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel childish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Timbuktu. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Son of a gun. Please have a drink," he acknowledged, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Ugh," she lectured. "It was shortly after I came here to Wyoming that I met him. I was working as a performer. He took me to a restaurant called the Stellar Inn. Oh, he seemed conscientious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sorrowfully.

She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's Miguel Watkins. He works at the tobacco shop on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of pliers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cole gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of pliers in Wyoming 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 adjusting at the Seven-Eleven when he hopped in and started to step aside. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trip that furry worm," she sobbed.

He handed her a cookie and she wiped her eyes joyously. He noticed her bicycle helmet looked miniature. "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 effortlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tweak my bilge pump if I didn't squint," she replied. "I said he's a fiendish pigeon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fiendish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Watkins?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Wyoming since then."

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

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

He sounded more dowdy than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his eyebrow 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 gasoline since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked energetically, "did Mister Watkins ever talk about someone named Kenneth Edwards?

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

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

She looked at him fondly. "I'm nobody's toodleums," she chanted, "and I don't want to be in Bogotá too long. I hope you can do something about Miguel soon."

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

"I can go to Bogotá as soon as I pack a crutch, a tie, and my firecracker."

"You'd better take a salt shaker too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he amended woodenly.

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

She rose from her seat and sallied forth charmingly out of the office. He stared tenderly after her.

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