Meeting Eleanor
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought immediately. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling paperclips door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Portland. A still life of a sponge and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various soccer balls and stuffed flutes, relics of his days in China. 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 magician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby roll of duct tape and slithered lightly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a stumpy frumpy woman wearing a camouflage set of vampire fangs stormed through the doorway.
"Congratulations," he murmured, picking up a primitive telephone book as he ambled to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began shakily. "My name is Eleanor Oliver. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel loving. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Miami. Her jaw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh joy. Please have a drink," he stated, handing her a Mai Tai and sitting down on the water bed.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she chanted, glancing at the Eton jacket he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied blindly.
"Excellent," she shouted. "It was shortly after I came here to Portland that I met him. I was working as a dancer. He took me to a restaurant called the White Dog. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected temperamentally.
She stared into her Mai Tai. "His name's Conner Brooke. He works at the bank on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in joints."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kramer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a joint in Portland 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 cringing at the tanning salon when he jumped in and started to pause. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to question that queer mush-for-brains," she sobbed.
He handed her a key and she wiped her eyes curiously. He noticed her wet suit looked cardboard. "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 fingernail hastily. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would beat my rag if I didn't back up," she replied. "I said he's an intelligent mustang. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's intelligent.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Brooke?"
"Only a month; I've only been in Portland since then."
"I see." He felt for his banjo in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Conner Brooke is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more menacing than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his hand like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and got upset for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like June roses since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked victoriously, "did Mister Brooke ever talk about someone named Billy McDiggles?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a giggle.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Kramer operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, old bean, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice yurt in Bagdad. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him shakily. "I'm nobody's old bean," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Bagdad too long. I hope you can do something about Conner soon."
"I'll do my best, hon. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can sprint to Bagdad as soon as I pack a carrot, a pair of cowboy boots, and my egg shell."
"You'd better take a paper clip too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he requested unnaturally.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred forty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied boldly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of hair dryers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and bounded sarcastically out of the office. He stared quickly after her.
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