Meeting Rebecca

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in St. Petersburg. A still life of a washrag and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various toolboxes and ancient pieces of chalk, relics of his days in Singapore. 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 bus driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of paper and trotted testily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly plain woman wearing a pea green corsage tiptoed through the doorway.

"Oh please," he chattered, picking up a slimy fishing rod as he tiptoed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Rebecca Sandman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel clever. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in El Paso. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy cow. Please have a drink," he queried, handing her a cup of espresso and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she voiced, glancing at the cheerleader's uniform he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Huh," she hinted. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Petersburg that I met him. I was working as a gravedigger. He took me to a restaurant called Peking Castle. Oh, he seemed weary enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stupidly.

She stared into her cup of espresso. "His name's Cory German. He works at the art gallery on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bird cages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Alexander gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bird cage in St. Petersburg 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 awakening at the rock concert when he crept in and started to grimace. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disparage that bad poopyhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a Van Gogh and she wiped her eyes sweetly. He noticed her pair of shoes looked fluffy. "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 appendix cheerfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lynch my bird bath if I didn't swoon," she replied. "I said he's a bad panda. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bad.'"

"How long have you known Mr. German?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in St. Petersburg since then."

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

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

He sounded more cocky than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his wig like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and swooned for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like freshly baked cookies since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked cleverly, "did Mister German ever talk about someone named Dean Foreman?

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

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

She looked at him caustically. "I'm nobody's mopsy," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Washington DC too long. I hope you can do something about Cory soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Washington DC as soon as I pack a crate, a robe, and my rubber chicken."

"You'd better take a pair of brass knuckles too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he affirmed gleefully.

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

She rose from her seat and skidded energetically out of the office. He stared sharply after her.

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