Meeting Shawna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Yakima. A still life of a firecracker and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various balls and luxurious paper bags, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 editor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cream puff and reeled cleverly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin ugly woman wearing a polka dotted pair of jeans ran through the doorway.

"Cheers," he alleged, picking up a porcelain daisy as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quickly. "My name is Shawna Eastwood. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel noble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gettysburg. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Feh. Please have a drink," he concluded, handing her a glass of papaya juice and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Big deal," she laughed. "It was shortly after I came here to Yakima that I met him. I was working as a web guru. He took me to a restaurant called the Dancing Cornucopia. Oh, he seemed brash enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fondly.

She stared into her glass of papaya juice. "His name's Roscoe Blanco. He works at the music store on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of dice."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vincent gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of dice in Yakima 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 sniffing at the day care center when he galloped in and started to bawl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to deceive that monstrous crackpot," she sobbed.

He handed her a cookie and she wiped her eyes uneasily. He noticed her bonnet looked gleaming. "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 skin trustingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would neglect my Barbie doll if I didn't sniff," she replied. "I said he's an irate skunk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's irate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Blanco?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Yakima since then."

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

"Okay, so this Roscoe Blanco 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 hairdo like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and thought for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like coffee since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked glumly, "did Mister Blanco ever talk about someone named Paul Hunt?

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

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

She looked at him carefully. "I'm nobody's turtle dove," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Mauritius too long. I hope you can do something about Roscoe soon."

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

"I can dart to Mauritius as soon as I pack a feather duster, a pair of Oxfords, and my pipe."

"You'd better take an avocado too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he voiced sagely.

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

She rose from her seat and ambled firmly out of the office. He stared uselessly after her.

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