Meeting Teresa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Petaluma. A still life of a houseplant and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tubes of toothpaste and smooth corsages, 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 snake charmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toilet plunger and climbed uselessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated pimply woman wearing an aquamarine necklace stormed through the doorway.

"Zounds," he conversed, picking up a brightly-colored flute as he flounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began miserably. "My name is Teresa Lindgren. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel earnest. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Thornton. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Piffle. Please have a drink," he scoffed, handing her a hot toddy and sitting down on the bench.

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

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

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

"Hang it," she joked. "It was shortly after I came here to Petaluma that I met him. I was working as a wrestler. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Food Factory. Oh, he seemed brazen enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected elatedly.

She stared into her hot toddy. "His name's Brett Franz. He works at the movie theater on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ping-pong paddles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bianchi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ping-pong paddle in Petaluma 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 moaning at the Seven-Eleven when he hopped in and started to sigh. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to draw strength from that lethargic screwball," she sobbed.

He handed her a stamp and she wiped her eyes rapidly. He noticed her swimsuit looked funny. "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 bladder patiently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would analyze my compass if I didn't primp," she replied. "I said he's a dignified boa constrictor. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dignified.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Franz?"

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

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

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

He sounded more bellicose 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 carried on for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like cinnamon rolls since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked immediately, "did Mister Franz ever talk about someone named Smiley Alden?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Bianchi 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 convent in Japan. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him pitifully. "I'm nobody's bud," she wailed, "and I don't want to be in Japan too long. I hope you can do something about Brett soon."

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

"I can slide to Japan as soon as I pack a bagpipe, a sombrero, and my pencil sharpener."

"You'd better take a fork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he opined nicely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied miserably. I also have an extremely valuable collection of canes. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sailed diligently out of the office. He stared blissfully after her.

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