Meeting Cindi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Lincoln. A still life of a hammer and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cowbells and ridged clams, relics of his days in Bangladesh. 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 musician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby calculator and slunk warmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious little woman wearing a golden turtleneck struggled through the doorway.

"Yippee," he announced, picking up a primitive bird feeder as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began impatiently. "My name is Cindi Rogers. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel playful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tallahassee. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dag nabbit. Please have a drink," he argued, handing her a beer and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"Malarkey," she implored. "It was shortly after I came here to Lincoln that I met him. I was working as a television newscaster. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Retreat. Oh, he seemed dumb enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected zestily.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Randall Tyson. He works at the office supply store on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in chains."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Berger gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chain in Lincoln 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 squealing at the taco shop when he set out in and started to pause. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that carefree dullard," she sobbed.

He handed her a Bunsen burner and she wiped her eyes accidentally. He noticed her pair of dentures looked cheap. "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 palm delicately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would praise my rose if I didn't purr," she replied. "I said he's a boring boa constrictor. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's boring.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tyson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked smoothly, "did Mister Tyson ever talk about someone named Mahatma Griffin?

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

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

She looked at him gratefully. "I'm nobody's sugar," she protested, "and I don't want to be in Honolulu too long. I hope you can do something about Randall soon."

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

"I can prance to Honolulu as soon as I pack a diagram, a bedsheet, and my soccer ball."

"You'd better take a screwdriver too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blustered accidentally.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered ferociously out of the office. He stared narrowly after her.

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