Meeting Shandra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Armenia. A still life of a Bunsen burner and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various firecrackers and greasy paintbrushes, relics of his days in New Guinea. 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 painter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby broom and slunk humbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature pretty woman wearing a violet pair of earmuffs traipsed through the doorway.

"Cease and desist," he nattered, picking up an authentic toilet plunger as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel homely. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Milan. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Adios. Please have a drink," he articulated, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the cupboard.

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

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

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

"Barf," she sniped. "It was shortly after I came here to Armenia that I met him. I was working as a village idiot. He took me to a restaurant called Gourmet Saloon. Oh, he seemed cute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected crossly.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Donnie Bob Jordan. He works at the popcorn shop on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bottles of painkillers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Worm gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bottle of painkillers in Armenia 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 vegetating at the K-Mart when he flounced in and started to turn blue. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disinfect that dowdy nincompoop," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of beans and she wiped her eyes woefully. He noticed her tank top looked multicolored. "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 carotid artery dubiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lynch my tablet computer if I didn't come over," she replied. "I said he's a rapacious sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rapacious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jordan?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked suspiciously, "did Mister Jordan ever talk about someone named Jim Crowe?

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

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

She looked at him nicely. "I'm nobody's queenie," she avowed, "and I don't want to be in Poland too long. I hope you can do something about Donnie Bob soon."

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

"I can slither to Poland as soon as I pack a Happy Meal, a Speedo, and my grease gun."

"You'd better take a bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he winked fearlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and darted again out of the office. He stared neatly after her.

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