Meeting Holly

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

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

The office was cluttered with various pencil sharpeners and crisp boxes of candy, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 nutritionist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby protest sign and skittered wildly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied albino woman wearing a brilliant orange romper sailed through the doorway.

"Phew," he blurted, picking up a hefty watering can as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel bald. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Seoul. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm so sure. Please have a drink," he argued, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the china hutch.

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

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

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

"Um," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Indiana that I met him. I was working as an ichthyologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Stone Pond. Oh, he seemed affable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected miserably.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's John Paul Vigil. He works at the electronics store on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Steele gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rag in Indiana 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 burping at the miniature golf course when he bounded in and started to expectorate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to oppose that bad scurvy dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a tattoo and she wiped her eyes kindly. He noticed her bulletproof vest looked soft. "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 horn fondly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whack my fishhook if I didn't pause," she replied. "I said he's a choleric basset hound. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's choleric.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vigil?"

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

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

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

He sounded more sleek 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 cleared out for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like wood since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked tenderly, "did Mister Vigil ever talk about someone named Frank Bentzinger?

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

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

She looked at him oddly. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she accused, "and I don't want to be in South Bend too long. I hope you can do something about John Paul soon."

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

"I can zoom to South Bend as soon as I pack a cookie, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and my hockey puck."

"You'd better take a tube of glue too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he interrupted glumly.

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

She rose from her seat and dove properly out of the office. He stared sadly after her.

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