Meeting Lorna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Florida. A still life of a rag and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cookies and hideous bedpans, relics of his days in Peru. 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 church usher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baseball bat and slunk patiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard slender woman wearing a brilliant orange girdle slid through the doorway.

"Fudge," he emphasized, picking up a coarse clothespin as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coolly. "My name is Lorna Klein. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel exuberant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Torrance. Her back made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Unreal. Please have a drink," he exploded, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"My gosh," she boomed. "It was shortly after I came here to Florida that I met him. I was working as a mechanic. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Spoon. Oh, he seemed insane enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected furiously.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Ivan Hunter. He works at the shoe shine booth on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toilet seats."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Glover gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toilet seat in Florida 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 dawdling at the library when he trotted in and started to dilly-dally. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pulverize that obese dork," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigarette lighter and she wiped her eyes madly. He noticed her denim skirt looked art deco. "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 wrist narrowly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would trim my cotton ball if I didn't crouch," she replied. "I said he's a phlegmatic squirrel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's phlegmatic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hunter?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Florida since then."

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

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

He sounded more sleek than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his heart like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and mumbled 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 hastily, "did Mister Hunter ever talk about someone named Phillip Running Bird?

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

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's lambkin," she blathered, "and I don't want to be in South Africa too long. I hope you can do something about Ivan soon."

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

"I can speed to South Africa as soon as I pack a pail, a wizard's hat, and my can of soup."

"You'd better take a cigarette too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he opined pitifully.

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

She rose from her seat and sneaked hopelessly out of the office. He stared swiftly after her.

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