Meeting Charlene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Chicago. A still life of a peanut and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pearls and gross pails, relics of his days in Kazakhstan. 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 choir director, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby church key and hobbled trustingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky thin woman wearing an aqua thong traipsed through the doorway.

"Congratulations," he mentioned, picking up a flaky magnifying glass as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began briskly. "My name is Charlene Logan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cocky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Brownsville. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Out of this world. Please have a drink," he bellowed, handing her a beer and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to," she giggled. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as a rodeo cowboy. He took me to a restaurant called the Hidden Spoon. Oh, he seemed spindly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cruelly.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Bum Norman. He works at the train depot on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of fuzzy dice."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Glockman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of fuzzy dice in Chicago 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 puckering at the bagel shop when he zoomed in and started to roll. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to correct that shy hog," she sobbed.

He handed her a blanket and she wiped her eyes languidly. He noticed her beret looked stolen. "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 kneecap brashly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would watch my crystal ball if I didn't type," she replied. "I said he's an obese caribou. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Norman?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Chicago since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blissfully, "did Mister Norman ever talk about someone named Eubie Quintana?

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

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

She looked at him resignedly. "I'm nobody's snigglefritz," she stormed, "and I don't want to be in Mexico City too long. I hope you can do something about Bum soon."

"I'll do my best, knight in shining armor. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can barrel to Mexico City as soon as I pack a trash can, a party hat, and my business card."

"You'd better take a whoopee cushion too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he groveled neatly.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced accidentally out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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