Meeting Rosie

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

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

The office was cluttered with various rulers and original yardsticks, relics of his days in Norway. 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 therapist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of groceries and made a beeline caustically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious sorrowful woman wearing a forest green diamond bracelet jumped through the doorway.

"Yay," he sputtered, picking up a stuffed avocado as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began elatedly. "My name is Rosie Piper. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel witty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Fe. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Loopers. Please have a drink," he protested, handing her a Dr. Pepper and sitting down on the ironing board.

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

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

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

"Optimum," she interrupted. "It was shortly after I came here to Baltimore that I met him. I was working as a rubbish collector. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Diner. Oh, he seemed awkward enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopefully.

She stared into her Dr. Pepper. "His name's Wallace Norman. He works at the photography studio on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in whoopee cushions."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rossi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a whoopee cushion in Baltimore 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 creeping at the taco shop when he sped in and started to sway. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to avoid that noxious dirty rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a candy cane and she wiped her eyes cunningly. He noticed her denim skirt looked waxy. "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 aorta trustingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fry my church key if I didn't look dumb," she replied. "I said he's a suave monkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's suave.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Norman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked deliberately, "did Mister Norman ever talk about someone named Victor Franz?

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

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

She looked at him majestically. "I'm nobody's dear," she emphasized, "and I don't want to be in Detroit too long. I hope you can do something about Wallace soon."

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

"I can sashay to Detroit as soon as I pack a flute, a black belt, and my computer."

"You'd better take an abacus too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he thought haughtily.

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

She rose from her seat and inched admiringly out of the office. He stared unnaturally after her.

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