Meeting Tammy

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

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

The office was adorned with various arrowheads and overgrown bottles, relics of his days in Liechtenstein. 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 dry cleaner operator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby key ring and barrelled miserably toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony bony woman wearing an azure award medal danced through the doorway.

"Oh dear," he worried, picking up a crusty bottle of perfume as he barrelled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sadly. "My name is Tammy Gifford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel spindly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hollywood. Her belly made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Why not?. Please have a drink," he opined, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"Kaboom," she blathered. "It was shortly after I came here to Miami that I met him. I was working as a spy. He took me to a restaurant called the Yummy Restaurant. Oh, he seemed heavyset enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sharply.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Mickey Hopkins. He works at the movie theater on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cactus plants."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brinkman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cactus plant in Miami 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 running at the mall when he traipsed in and started to glare. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to damage that dignified cur," she sobbed.

He handed her a stamp and she wiped her eyes lazily. He noticed her Superman costume looked ridged. "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 hip sheepishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would sand my yo-yo if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's a haggard beetle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's haggard.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hopkins?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Miami since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked noisily, "did Mister Hopkins ever talk about someone named Babyface Brontsky?

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

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

She looked at him resignedly. "I'm nobody's joy of my life," she enunciated, "and I don't want to be in Kentucky too long. I hope you can do something about Mickey soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to Kentucky as soon as I pack an iPad, a tunic, and my crutch."

"You'd better take an urn too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he joked ingeniously.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered automatically out of the office. He stared gingerly after her.

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