Meeting Patricia

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

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

The office was cluttered with various Hammond organs and ancient muffins, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 calculus teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cane and skipped gratefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout graceful woman wearing a tan miniskirt jogged through the doorway.

"Hee haw," he fumed, picking up a charming daisy as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frenetically. "My name is Patricia Katz. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel choleric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Riverside. Her finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yay. Please have a drink," he comforted, handing her a Mountain Dew and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Dag nabbit," she disputed. "It was shortly after I came here to Pennsylvania that I met him. I was working as an Egyptologist. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Pig. Oh, he seemed sarcastic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sorrowfully.

She stared into her Mountain Dew. "His name's Norman Ireland. He works at the convenience store on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in blank checks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Yang gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a blank check in Pennsylvania 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 school cafeteria when he careened in and started to daydream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to analyze that bald nerd," she sobbed.

He handed her a hubcap and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her pair of safety glasses looked burned. "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 big toe solemnly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would strip my toy if I didn't nod off," she replied. "I said he's a tired peacock. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tired.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ireland?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Pennsylvania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Ireland ever talk about someone named Carl Barrett?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an air kiss.

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's old friend," she bellowed, "and I don't want to be in Stockton too long. I hope you can do something about Norman soon."

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

"I can slink to Stockton as soon as I pack a brochure, a suit of armor, and my bottle of perfume."

"You'd better take a notebook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sniveled cheerfully.

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

She rose from her seat and tore nonchalantly out of the office. He stared fearlessly after her.

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