Meeting Diane

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in El Paso. A still life of a baseball bat and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rolls of duct tape and original flyswatters, 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 preacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chair and inched sagely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky chubby woman wearing a forest green few petite rags sped through the doorway.

"I'll bet," he sighed, picking up a stolen hip flask as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began valiantly. "My name is Diane Higgins. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel enchanting. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Bernardino. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh my. Please have a drink," he opined, handing her a Dr. Pepper and sitting down on the futon.

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

"This is difficult for me," she agreed, glancing at the pair of flip-flops he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Silence," she bellowed. "It was shortly after I came here to El Paso that I met him. I was working as a bootlegger. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Home. Oh, he seemed homely enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fervently.

She stared into her Dr. Pepper. "His name's Studs Simpson. He works at the hair salon on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hair brushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Steinbeck gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hair brush in El Paso 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 coming over at the tanning salon when he trotted in and started to snort. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe that sensible dingbat," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of shaving cream and she wiped her eyes cruelly. He noticed her pair of shoes looked loose. "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 stomach carelessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grease my tennis racket if I didn't howl," she replied. "I said he's an irate bunny. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's irate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simpson?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in El Paso since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked delicately, "did Mister Simpson ever talk about someone named William Smith?

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

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

She looked at him fervently. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she cackled, "and I don't want to be in Detroit too long. I hope you can do something about Studs soon."

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

"I can waltz to Detroit as soon as I pack a box, a pair of pajamas, and my pillow."

"You'd better take a calculator too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pleaded swiftly.

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

She rose from her seat and tramped sleepily out of the office. He stared automatically after her.

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