Meeting Edie
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought quietly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling charts door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Australia. A still life of a Rubik's cube and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various plaques and wet diagrams, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 astrologer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chart and sailed tenderly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a prodigious fair woman wearing an aqua uniform breezed through the doorway.
"Blast," he spoke up, picking up a wooden backpack as he tore to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began merrily. "My name is Edie McKenzie. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel gallant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Spokane. Her gut made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My word. Please have a drink," he retorted, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the table.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she piped up, glancing at the burqa he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied anxiously.
"Just a minute," she yawned. "It was shortly after I came here to Australia that I met him. I was working as a rabble rouser. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's King. Oh, he seemed brave enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected busily.
She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Martin Brock. He works at the McDonalds on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of binoculars."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ali gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of binoculars in Australia 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 exercising at the laundromat when he swaggered in and started to rejoice. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to yell at that selfish scullery maid," she sobbed.
He handed her a hair dryer and she wiped her eyes grandly. He noticed her maxi skirt looked polished. "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 ego majestically. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would prune my feather duster if I didn't daydream," she replied. "I said he's a dapper weasel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dapper.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Brock?"
"Only a century; I've only been in Australia since then."
"I see." He felt for his billy club in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Martin Brock 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 lung like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and looked dumb for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like tea since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked pitifully, "did Mister Brock ever talk about someone named René Del Genio?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a squint.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Ali operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, swizzle, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice park bench in Benin. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him carelessly. "I'm nobody's swizzle," she yammered, "and I don't want to be in Benin too long. I hope you can do something about Martin soon."
"I'll do my best, main squeeze. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can slip to Benin as soon as I pack an urn, a mortarboard, and my whistle."
"You'd better take an oriental vase too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sniffed suspiciously.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred seven dollars as a retainer," she replied humbly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of saddles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and proceeded suavely out of the office. He stared oddly after her.
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