Meeting Erin

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in the Netherlands. A still life of a floppy disk and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various rubber stamps and big bones, relics of his days in Angola. 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 mediator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby wrench and tore crazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin fair woman wearing a blue tattoo galloped through the doorway.

"Woof," he provoked, picking up a sophisticated Van Gogh as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began despondently. "My name is Erin Holiday. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel irate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tacoma. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yippee. Please have a drink," he chanted, handing her a martini and sitting down on the sofa.

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

"This is difficult for me," she snorted, glancing at the pair of combat boots he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Bada bing bada boom," she hinted. "It was shortly after I came here to the Netherlands that I met him. I was working as a dog trainer. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed angry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daintily.

She stared into her martini. "His name's Damien Evans. He works at the travel agency on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cream puffs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shainberg gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cream puff in the Netherlands 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 doodling at the tanning salon when he hopped in and started to peep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to marry that dreadful nitwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a rock and she wiped her eyes nicely. He noticed her pair of tights looked cardboard. "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 finger crossly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would harden my mushroom if I didn't hum," she replied. "I said he's a vile eel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's vile.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Evans?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked clumsily, "did Mister Evans ever talk about someone named Knuckles Higgenbottom?

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

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

She looked at him sheepishly. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she remarked, "and I don't want to be in Vancouver too long. I hope you can do something about Damien soon."

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

"I can careen to Vancouver as soon as I pack a fire hose, a trench coat, and my hair dryer."

"You'd better take a coffee pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he nattered dolorously.

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

She rose from her seat and leapt sheepishly out of the office. He stared carelessly after her.

Next Chapter