Meeting Peg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Des Moines. A still life of a fishing rod and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flutes and ordinary bottles of perfume, relics of his days in Spain. 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 lawyer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baby doll and leapt daringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe blond woman wearing a periwinkle Stetson hat waltzed through the doorway.

"Jeepers," he emphasized, picking up a funny pencil sharpener as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Peg Bean. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel prissy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Saint Louis. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "No no no. Please have a drink," he blurted, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"Cowabunga," she howled. "It was shortly after I came here to Des Moines that I met him. I was working as a lifeguard. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Cuisine. Oh, he seemed dignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stealthily.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Deng Carver. He works at the storage unit on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paperweights."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dingwell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paperweight in Des Moines 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 ruminating at the garden when he loped in and started to jiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to imitate that furry weasel," she sobbed.

He handed her a pinwheel and she wiped her eyes accidentally. He noticed her gown looked bent. "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 skin gruffly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shoot my coconut if I didn't talk," she replied. "I said he's an adorable newt. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's adorable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Carver?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Des Moines since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked peevishly, "did Mister Carver ever talk about someone named Roman Torres?

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

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

She looked at him peevishly. "I'm nobody's Banana Cakes," she agreed, "and I don't want to be in Augusta too long. I hope you can do something about Deng soon."

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

"I can swagger to Augusta as soon as I pack a fork, a pair of knickers, and my knitting needle."

"You'd better take a cactus plant too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and tore quickly out of the office. He stared briskly after her.

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