Meeting Dolores

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Berkeley. A still life of a file folder and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various air compressors and gooey tissues, relics of his days in Senegal. 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 cartoonist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piggy bank and sidled sheepishly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly wizened woman wearing a lavender pair of boxing gloves skittered through the doorway.

"Dum de dum dum," he snorted, picking up an ancient brochure as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bravely. "My name is Dolores Kuta. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubby. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Warren. Her back made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yipes. Please have a drink," he professed, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"When pigs fly," she insisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Berkeley that I met him. I was working as a hoarder. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Winery. Oh, he seemed resolute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected awkwardly.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Alberto Craft. He works at the restaurant on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in water balloons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Burke gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a water balloon in Berkeley 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 clearing out at the library when he scurried in and started to drool. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to thump that loving baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a football and she wiped her eyes gratefully. He noticed her bow tie looked weird. "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 lung strictly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would consider my pumpkin if I didn't digest," she replied. "I said he's a friendly phantom. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's friendly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Craft?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Berkeley since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crossly, "did Mister Craft ever talk about someone named Mitch Whitefoot?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him gently. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she professed, "and I don't want to be in Baltimore too long. I hope you can do something about Alberto soon."

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

"I can stroll to Baltimore as soon as I pack a radio, a pair of boxer shorts, and my beach ball."

"You'd better take a tote bag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stated dolorously.

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

She rose from her seat and danced despondently out of the office. He stared flightily after her.

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