Meeting Lindsay

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Manchester. A still life of a ball and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various magazines and fabulous pinwheels, relics of his days in Russia. 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 soldier, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paper towel and dove angrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe emaciated woman wearing a lime-green pair of boxing gloves inched through the doorway.

"Holy moley," he giggled, picking up a magnificent hair dryer as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dreamily. "My name is Lindsay Dupont. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel peculiar. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Columbus. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Anyhow. Please have a drink," he purred, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the futon.

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

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

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

"Meow," she agreed. "It was shortly after I came here to Manchester that I met him. I was working as an administrative assistant. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Fortress. Oh, he seemed articulate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dreamily.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's Macon Niebels. He works at the jewelry store on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in buckets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gleason gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bucket in Manchester 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 wandering at the recycling bin when he slunk in and started to frown. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to block that distressed dweeb," she sobbed.

He handed her an urn and she wiped her eyes viciously. He noticed her pair of sweatpants looked prickly. "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 kneecap temperamentally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would deliver my bagpipe if I didn't suffer," she replied. "I said he's an atrocious jaguar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's atrocious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Niebels?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fiercely, "did Mister Niebels ever talk about someone named Gus Wolf?

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

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

She looked at him gracefully. "I'm nobody's sugar plum," she sputtered, "and I don't want to be in England too long. I hope you can do something about Macon soon."

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

"I can sneak to England as soon as I pack a church key, a bustier, and my pinwheel."

"You'd better take a pack of gum too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he laughed swiftly.

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

She rose from her seat and walked kindly out of the office. He stared urgently after her.

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