Meeting Bunny

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Algeria. A still life of a sponge and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various staplers and rusty pumpkins, relics of his days in Iran. 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 courier, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fire hose and zipped valiantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated scruffy woman wearing a peach loincloth made a beeline through the doorway.

"Ahh," he gabbed, picking up a hand-painted piece of candy as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began furiously. "My name is Bunny Barrymore. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cowardly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tokyo. Her horn made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Far out, man. Please have a drink," he vowed, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Son of a Baptist preacher," she breathed. "It was shortly after I came here to Algeria that I met him. I was working as a rabbi. He took me to a restaurant called Hunan Grill. Oh, he seemed princely enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected haughtily.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Peter Hayes. He works at the fortune teller shop on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paintbrushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hayashida gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paintbrush in Algeria 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 sitting still at the Wal-Mart when he proceeded in and started to tread water. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to love that insane so-and-so," she sobbed.

He handed her a snail and she wiped her eyes offhandedly. He noticed her pair of shoes looked thick. "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 thigh cunningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shove my toothbrush if I didn't exhale," she replied. "I said he's a disorganized Dalmatian. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's disorganized.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hayes?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Algeria since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nonchalantly, "did Mister Hayes ever talk about someone named Vernon Sparks?

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

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

She looked at him frantically. "I'm nobody's rose petal," she growled, "and I don't want to be in Quebec too long. I hope you can do something about Peter soon."

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

"I can lope to Quebec as soon as I pack a notebook, a diaper, and my piggy bank."

"You'd better take a bowling ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he revealed delicately.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's seventy-six dollars as a retainer," she replied doubtfully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of stacks of papers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and loped boldly out of the office. He stared peevishly after her.

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