Meeting Seema

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

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

The office was cluttered with various bananas and porcelain purses, relics of his days in Nepal. 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 fire marshal, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and scampered warmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump feeble woman wearing a sea green pair of cycling shorts bolted through the doorway.

"Be still, my beating heart," he purred, picking up a delicate needle and thread as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began obediently. "My name is Seema Evans. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Nashville. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hmm. Please have a drink," he noted, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Hello," she persisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as a hoarder. He took me to a restaurant called the White Dog. Oh, he seemed gentle enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected victoriously.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Pinky Rexford. He works at the bookstore on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in notepads."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gagné gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a notepad 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 sneering at the city park when he slipped in and started to pray. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to belittle that rapacious dimwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a coat check ticket and she wiped her eyes stupidly. He noticed her belly button jewel looked filthy. "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 throat languidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wiggle my Bible if I didn't cheer up," she replied. "I said he's a peculiar mustang. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's peculiar.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rexford?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked miserably, "did Mister Rexford ever talk about someone named Irving Price?

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

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

She looked at him frenetically. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she affirmed, "and I don't want to be in Columbus too long. I hope you can do something about Pinky soon."

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

"I can march to Columbus as soon as I pack an urn, a polo shirt, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a piece of chalk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spouted perkily.

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

She rose from her seat and trekked crankily out of the office. He stared blankly after her.

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