Meeting Reba

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

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

The office was adorned with various bones and narrow diamonds, relics of his days in Puerto Rico. 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 construction worker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stuffed kitten and bounced warmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout cute woman wearing a tan tunic struggled through the doorway.

"Pshaw," he stormed, picking up a striking coat check ticket as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began wearily. "My name is Reba Brontsky. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel mindless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Philadelphia. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shame. Please have a drink," he belched, handing her a 7-Up and sitting down on the dishwasher.

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

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

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

"Dang it," she nattered. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as a gastroenterologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Moon. Oh, he seemed poised enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected doubtfully.

She stared into her 7-Up. "His name's Pete Craven. He works at the video arcade on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in napkins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Davis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a napkin in Concord 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 leering at the poetry reading when he flew in and started to belch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tantalize that smart sneak," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of scissors and she wiped her eyes sadly. He noticed her stovepipe hat 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 adrenal gland dubiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would silence my flyswatter if I didn't smile," she replied. "I said he's a loving squirrel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's loving.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Craven?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister Craven ever talk about someone named Shawn Johnson?

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

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

She looked at him breathlessly. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she offered, "and I don't want to be in Bakersfield too long. I hope you can do something about Pete soon."

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

"I can tear to Bakersfield as soon as I pack a piece of paper, a burqa, and my mushroom."

"You'd better take a coupon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he crooned hungrily.

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

She rose from her seat and careened fondly out of the office. He stared peevishly after her.

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