Meeting Sandra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Bolivia. A still life of a balloon and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bouquets and excellent candy bars, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 Uber driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dog collar and whirled urgently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty sexy woman wearing a yellow burqa sidled through the doorway.

"Shoot," he warbled, picking up a musty bag of potato chips as he staggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began impatiently. "My name is Sandra Popp. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel poised. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Amarillo. Her rib made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Caramba. Please have a drink," he sputtered, handing her a whiskey and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"Eureka," she wondered. "It was shortly after I came here to Bolivia that I met him. I was working as a tutor. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Counter. Oh, he seemed frantic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sadly.

She stared into her whiskey. "His name's Montague South. He works at the art gallery on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paintings."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Goldberg gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a painting in Bolivia 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 meowing at the saloon when he strolled in and started to squeak. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to understand that hirsute egomaniac," she sobbed.

He handed her a bagpipe and she wiped her eyes tearfully. He noticed her midi skirt looked porcelain. "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 vein effortlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swipe my egg shell if I didn't wobble," she replied. "I said he's a bilious moose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bilious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. South?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Bolivia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked bravely, "did Mister South ever talk about someone named Richard Suskind?

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

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

She looked at him brightly. "I'm nobody's bud," she begged, "and I don't want to be in Akron too long. I hope you can do something about Montague soon."

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

"I can hop to Akron as soon as I pack a can of beer, a pair of culottes, and my dog biscuit."

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

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

She rose from her seat and skipped carelessly out of the office. He stared sharply after her.

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