Meeting Susanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Libya. A still life of a pencil sharpener and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sticks and filthy teddy bears, relics of his days in Bermuda. 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 dance instructor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby lollipop and pranced firmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite sprightly woman wearing an ivory pair of Oxfords clambered through the doorway.

"Aaack," he debated, picking up a broken fire hose as he jumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fearlessly. "My name is Susanne Wayman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hairy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Los Angeles. Her bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aaack. Please have a drink," he harangued, handing her a martini and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"Gee whiz," she reacted. "It was shortly after I came here to Libya that I met him. I was working as an elementary school teacher. He took me to a restaurant called the Yummy Stone. Oh, he seemed angry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grudgingly.

She stared into her martini. "His name's Adrian O'Brien. He works at the Hallmark shop on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in artificial flowers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gill gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an artificial flower in Libya 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 barking at the mall when he darted in and started to gesticulate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to leave that spindly sap," she sobbed.

He handed her a crystal ball and she wiped her eyes sleepily. He noticed her hair net looked fabulous. "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 toenail wearily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smell my pair of knitting needles if I didn't flush," she replied. "I said he's an irate robot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's irate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. O'Brien?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Libya since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ingeniously, "did Mister O'Brien ever talk about someone named Octavius Ford?

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

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

She looked at him lovingly. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she repeated, "and I don't want to be in Macedonia too long. I hope you can do something about Adrian soon."

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

"I can caper to Macedonia as soon as I pack a calculator, a bracelet, and my brochure."

"You'd better take a cell phone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reminded viciously.

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

She rose from her seat and careened softly out of the office. He stared merrily after her.

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