Meeting Lorrie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Mississippi. A still life of an artificial flower and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various garbage cans and art deco pieces of chalk, relics of his days in Indonesia. 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 insurance agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby lemon and galloped woefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat unkempt woman wearing an azure pair of shin guards dove through the doorway.

"Please," he babbled, picking up a hand-painted key as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began busily. "My name is Lorrie Ackerman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel freakish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fayetteville. Her chin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Phooey. Please have a drink," he analyzed, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Yowee," she exploded. "It was shortly after I came here to Mississippi that I met him. I was working as a food critic. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Saloon. Oh, he seemed bad enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lightly.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Matthew Brazil. He works at the music store on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in shoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Slater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a shoe in Mississippi 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 getting angry at the bowling alley when he traipsed in and started to screech. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that obnoxious troublemaker," she sobbed.

He handed her a stopwatch and she wiped her eyes shyly. He noticed her pair of earmuffs looked well worn. "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 toe deliberately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would overlook my dictionary if I didn't groan," she replied. "I said he's a sinister turtle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sinister.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brazil?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Mississippi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Brazil ever talk about someone named Dale Brooke?

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

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

She looked at him curiously. "I'm nobody's old bean," she raved, "and I don't want to be in Alaska too long. I hope you can do something about Matthew soon."

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

"I can waltz to Alaska as soon as I pack a piece of chalk, a gorilla suit, and my flyswatter."

"You'd better take a flyswatter too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hollered gruffly.

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

She rose from her seat and walked shyly out of the office. He stared solemnly after her.

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