Meeting Ana

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Seychelles. A still life of a bag and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bottles of perfume and amazing bagpipes, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 piano tuner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle and scooted suspiciously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky little woman wearing an aquamarine pair of shin guards flounced through the doorway.

"Hold your horses," he wondered, picking up a worn sack of potatoes as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began suddenly. "My name is Ana Franklin. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brassy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cairo. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Nooo. Please have a drink," he articulated, handing her a kamikaze and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"My my," she stammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Seychelles that I met him. I was working as a builder. He took me to a restaurant called Egyptian Stone. Oh, he seemed wizened enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stealthily.

She stared into her kamikaze. "His name's Seth Stucky. He works at the dry cleaner on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in biscuits."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Poole gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a biscuit in Seychelles 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 shaking at the K-Mart when he rolled in and started to inhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ridicule that freakish harebrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a blanket and she wiped her eyes needlessly. He noticed her sombrero looked queer. "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 bicep sagely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unlock my chess set if I didn't curtsey," she replied. "I said he's a sanguine parakeet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sanguine.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stucky?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Seychelles since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked curiously, "did Mister Stucky ever talk about someone named Jamie Schreiber?

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

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

She looked at him properly. "I'm nobody's love," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Mexico too long. I hope you can do something about Seth soon."

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

"I can careen to Mexico as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a hoodie, and my basket."

"You'd better take a bagpipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he judged boisterously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred nine dollars as a retainer," she replied repeatedly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bags of groceries. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and galumphed rapidly out of the office. He stared lazily after her.

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