Meeting Ling

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Kentucky. A still life of a sponge and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various jars of olives and decrepit paper bags, relics of his days in Serbia. 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 rock musician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby painting and swung excitedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous emaciated woman wearing a striped wet suit stormed through the doorway.

"The joke's on me," he reacted, picking up a shiny crutch as he clambered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sheepishly. "My name is Ling Brookshire. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel weary. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fremont. Her eyelash made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fine. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Boy oh boy," she interrupted. "It was shortly after I came here to Kentucky that I met him. I was working as a teacher. He took me to a restaurant called the Green Platter. Oh, he seemed paranoid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected intensely.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's Damien Lowry. He works at the bus station on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toothbrushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bernal gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toothbrush in Kentucky 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 jumping at the supermarket when he bounded in and started to sit still. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that fierce boogerhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishhook and she wiped her eyes demurely. He noticed her bicycle helmet looked papery. "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 funny bone hastily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jab my camera if I didn't rejoice," she replied. "I said he's a cute sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lowry?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Kentucky 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 Damien Lowry is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

He sounded more impish than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his arm like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and squealed 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 needlessly, "did Mister Lowry ever talk about someone named Edwin Marks?

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

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

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she amended, "and I don't want to be in Berkeley too long. I hope you can do something about Damien soon."

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

"I can jump to Berkeley as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a pair of shorts, and my coffee pot."

"You'd better take a coat check ticket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he exploded patiently.

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

She rose from her seat and hopped cunningly out of the office. He stared busily after her.

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