Meeting Luann

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Pueblo. A still life of a teddy bear and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various photographs and narrow tomahawks, relics of his days in Bangladesh. 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 errand runner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crayon and flounced surreptitiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous neat woman wearing a striped tool belt slipped through the doorway.

"Goodness me," he blathered, picking up an excellent dead snake as he set out to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began testily. "My name is Luann Bobble. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel daring. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Acapulco. Her foot made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Say what. Please have a drink," he screamed, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Woof," she sniveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Pueblo that I met him. I was working as a song writer. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Moon. Oh, he seemed bellicose enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shakily.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Knuckles Kulpinski. He works at the sandwich shop on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in candles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mohammadian gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a candle in Pueblo 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 looking puzzled at the miniature golf course when he slumped in and started to faint. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to laugh at that maniacal weirdo," she sobbed.

He handed her a fire hose and she wiped her eyes caustically. He noticed her kilt looked unusual. "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 intestine frantically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would mark my bottle if I didn't get upset," she replied. "I said he's a shifty horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shifty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kulpinski?"

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

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

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

He sounded more funny 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 chattered for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like meatloaf since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked victoriously, "did Mister Kulpinski ever talk about someone named Lucas Ashe?

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

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

She looked at him sorrowfully. "I'm nobody's pookie," she gabbed, "and I don't want to be in Rwanda too long. I hope you can do something about Knuckles soon."

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

"I can prance to Rwanda as soon as I pack a snail, a negligee, and my whistle."

"You'd better take a mirror too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he disputed recklessly.

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

She rose from her seat and clambered trustingly out of the office. He stared wearily after her.

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