Meeting Lorna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Rhode Island. A still life of a piece of paper and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various iPhones and worn bottles of painkillers, relics of his days in Laos. 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 lifeguard, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tube of toothpaste and darted nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe short woman wearing a blue tarboosh slid through the doorway.

"Blah," he rebutted, picking up a funny bedpan as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coolly. "My name is Lorna Lions. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bald. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Toledo. Her earlobe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Stoked. Please have a drink," he blathered, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"By all the saints at the backside door of purgatory," she declared. "It was shortly after I came here to Rhode Island that I met him. I was working as a dry cleaner operator. He took me to a restaurant called Moroccan Sky. Oh, he seemed bubbly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woodenly.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Macon Morgan. He works at the furniture store on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Big Gulps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stevenson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Big Gulp in Rhode Island 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 day care center when he sidled in and started to look angry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to smack that prickly slacker," she sobbed.

He handed her an abacus and she wiped her eyes hopefully. He noticed her belt buckle looked rigid. "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 throat courageously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would disguise my balloon if I didn't seethe," she replied. "I said he's an obese dormouse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Morgan?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Rhode Island since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked bravely, "did Mister Morgan ever talk about someone named Karl Giordano?

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

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

She looked at him ignobly. "I'm nobody's bud," she sighed, "and I don't want to be in Nairobi too long. I hope you can do something about Macon soon."

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

"I can bolt to Nairobi as soon as I pack a fishing rod, a jacket, and my primrose."

"You'd better take an accordion too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he began strangely.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched uneasily out of the office. He stared diligently after her.

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