Meeting Laci

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Sudan. A still life of an antenna and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various baseballs and musty pencils, relics of his days in Argentina. 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 carpenter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basket and tiptoed hysterically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky plump woman wearing an orange bow tie darted through the doorway.

"Congratulations," he vouched, picking up a plastic mushroom as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bitterly. "My name is Laci Witherspoon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sociable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Kabul. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Loopers. Please have a drink," he wept, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Scat," she whispered. "It was shortly after I came here to Sudan that I met him. I was working as a web guru. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Taqueria. Oh, he seemed powerful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Wilson Tweedie. He works at the library on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paintbrushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Milano gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paintbrush in Sudan 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 mumbling at the tattoo parlor when he crawled in and started to wince. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to manipulate that shifty imposter," she sobbed.

He handed her a fire hose and she wiped her eyes daringly. He noticed her pair of pajamas looked imported. "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 earlobe courteously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would label my stack of papers if I didn't come over," she replied. "I said he's a bouncy frog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bouncy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tweedie?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked deliberately, "did Mister Tweedie ever talk about someone named Josh Roeber?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him dubiously. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she avowed, "and I don't want to be in Boise too long. I hope you can do something about Wilson soon."

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

"I can dart to Boise as soon as I pack a Bunsen burner, a sombrero, and my nail."

"You'd better take a clarinet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whispered daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and skittered openly out of the office. He stared suavely after her.

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