Meeting Lorna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Laredo. A still life of a calculator and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various boxes of Kleenex and ordinary bicycles, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 counselor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby banana and ambled boldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny large woman wearing a chocolate brown pair of Crocs lumbered through the doorway.

"Darn," he concluded, picking up an automatic tube of glue as he went to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel hirsute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Detroit. Her stomach made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokes. Please have a drink," he whined, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Shoo," she disputed. "It was shortly after I came here to Laredo that I met him. I was working as an undertaker. He took me to a restaurant called the New Steak & Suds. Oh, he seemed tall enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected later.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Tyler Fosbury. He works at the mortuary on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in screwdrivers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a screwdriver in Laredo 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 wobbling at the health food store when he ran in and started to tread water. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to apologize to that humble prattling gabbler," she sobbed.

He handed her a computer and she wiped her eyes hungrily. He noticed her fig leaf looked gruesome. "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 antenna bitterly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fold my yo-yo if I didn't gesticulate," she replied. "I said he's a masculine jackal. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's masculine.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fosbury?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Laredo since then."

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

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

He sounded more pigeon-toed than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his wrist like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and cleared out for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like onions since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked thoughtfully, "did Mister Fosbury ever talk about someone named Beauford Gunderson?

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

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

She looked at him nervously. "I'm nobody's princess," she rationalized, "and I don't want to be in Boise too long. I hope you can do something about Tyler soon."

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

"I can march to Boise as soon as I pack a suitcase, a tank top, and my hand puppet."

"You'd better take a pair of pliers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he breathed offhandedly.

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

She rose from her seat and loped sagely out of the office. He stared diligently after her.

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