Meeting Vera

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Colombia. A still life of an Egyptian mummy and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ice cream cones and broken snails, 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 tutor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby magnifying glass and lumbered sagely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat cadaverous woman wearing a terra cotta bedsheet waddled through the doorway.

"Golly," he yammered, picking up a fancy coat check ticket as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began awkwardly. "My name is Vera Jacobsen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel angry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Des Moines. Her liver made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alas. Please have a drink," he proposed, handing her a gin sour and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"When pigs fly," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Colombia that I met him. I was working as a wedding planner. He took me to a restaurant called Northern Moon. Oh, he seemed cantankerous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected obediently.

She stared into her gin sour. "His name's Devon McGill. He works at the craft store on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hair brushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brooks gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hair brush in Colombia 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 raising an eyebrow at the health food store when he trekked in and started to dither. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stop that bizarre hound dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of shaving cream and she wiped her eyes nimbly. He noticed her business suit looked ridiculous. "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 stomach uselessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would refine my skull if I didn't yell," she replied. "I said he's a fierce spider. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fierce.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McGill?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lovingly, "did Mister McGill ever talk about someone named Herbert Provenzano?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's sugar," she argued, "and I don't want to be in Birmingham too long. I hope you can do something about Devon soon."

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

"I can set out to Birmingham as soon as I pack a Hostess Ding Dong, a pair of pantaloons, and my tube of toothpaste."

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

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

She rose from her seat and bounced brashly out of the office. He stared perkily after her.

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