Meeting Deirdre

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Wisconsin. A still life of a hip flask and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various sponges and amazing cigarette lighters, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 shoe repairer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby roll of duct tape and sashayed sympathetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky good looking woman wearing an olive green vest strolled through the doorway.

"Just a minute," he fumed, picking up a clean bag of ice as he dove to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began immediately. "My name is Deirdre Witherbee. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel noxious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rome. Her gut made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bilge. Please have a drink," he screeched, handing her a Mai Tai and sitting down on the bench.

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

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

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

"Meh," she invited. "It was shortly after I came here to Wisconsin that I met him. I was working as a percussionist. He took me to a restaurant called Mama's Fortress. Oh, he seemed ignoble enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected innocently.

She stared into her Mai Tai. "His name's Ryan Freeman. He works at the art gallery on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in snails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vaniman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a snail in Wisconsin 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 glowering at the movie theater when he barrelled in and started to look dumb. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to split up with that sloppy nut," she sobbed.

He handed her a package and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her mortarboard looked archaic. "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 hand anxiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cook my key ring if I didn't shrivel," she replied. "I said he's a silly cow. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's silly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Freeman?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Wisconsin since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grimly, "did Mister Freeman ever talk about someone named Nate Turner?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him nervously. "I'm nobody's honey-babe," she instructed, "and I don't want to be in Namibia too long. I hope you can do something about Ryan soon."

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

"I can skid to Namibia as soon as I pack a wrench, a pair of shorts, and my chain."

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

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

She rose from her seat and sneaked deftly out of the office. He stared gently after her.

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