Meeting Queenie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in St. Louis. A still life of an egg shell and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various autoharps and damp charts, relics of his days in Malta. 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 pharmacist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby houseplant and galumphed shakily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature cute woman wearing a metallic red camisole inched through the doorway.

"Drop dead," he bellowed, picking up a lime-green amulet as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stupidly. "My name is Queenie Zimmerman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conceited. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hamburg. Her big toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Sieg Heil. Please have a drink," he realized, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Hurray," she mentioned. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Louis that I met him. I was working as a news reporter. He took me to a restaurant called the Fragrant Lounge. Oh, he seemed sensible enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shakily.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Craig Sludge. He works at the liquor store on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pop bottles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Haddad gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pop bottle in St. Louis 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 miniature golf course when he galumphed in and started to kneel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to soothe that unselfish fuddy-duddy," she sobbed.

He handed her a shovel and she wiped her eyes fearlessly. He noticed her space suit looked expensive. "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 nose daintily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would crack my Hostess Ding Dong if I didn't lie down," she replied. "I said he's an ignoble otter. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's ignoble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sludge?"

"Only a century; I've only been in St. Louis since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked glumly, "did Mister Sludge ever talk about someone named Abraham Brunken?

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

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

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's cookie," she called, "and I don't want to be in Trenton too long. I hope you can do something about Craig soon."

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

"I can tramp to Trenton as soon as I pack an abacus, a T-shirt, and my pop bottle."

"You'd better take a Van Gogh too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blathered briskly.

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

She rose from her seat and climbed slyly out of the office. He stared stupidly after her.

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