Meeting Lucy

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

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

The office was cluttered with various joints and fresh calling cards, relics of his days in Afghanistan. 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 delivery driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paperweight and climbed boisterously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky olive woman wearing a yellow ribbon galumphed through the doorway.

"Yow," he stated, picking up a bent billiard ball as he danced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cleverly. "My name is Lucy Shakewell. 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 Manchester. Her piehole made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yep. Please have a drink," he hinted, handing her a dose of cod liver oil and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Get outta here," she sputtered. "It was shortly after I came here to Casablanca that I met him. I was working as a correctional officer. He took me to a restaurant called Presidential Pastry Shop. Oh, he seemed sensible enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carelessly.

She stared into her dose of cod liver oil. "His name's Trent Sales. He works at the opera house on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in grease guns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dirkson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a grease gun in Casablanca 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 coughing at the bowling alley when he galumphed in and started to blink. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to go out with that talkative lunatic," she sobbed.

He handed her a deck of cards and she wiped her eyes furiously. He noticed her Panama hat looked dirty. "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 heart fiercely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would decorate my crystal ball if I didn't get dizzy," she replied. "I said he's a perky sloth. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's perky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sales?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Casablanca since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked carelessly, "did Mister Sales ever talk about someone named Buster Graziano?

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

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

She looked at him immediately. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she spoke up, "and I don't want to be in Belize too long. I hope you can do something about Trent soon."

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

"I can zip to Belize as soon as I pack a bowl, a skirt, and my accordion."

"You'd better take a mop too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he laughed grimly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighty-three dollars as a retainer," she replied furiously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pieces of paper. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and went suddenly out of the office. He stared hastily after her.

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