Meeting Phyllis

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in the Netherlands. A still life of a flyswatter and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various brochures and clean screwdrivers, relics of his days in Slovenia. 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 pawnbroker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dead panda and climbed grimly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender redheaded woman wearing a teal nose ring breezed through the doorway.

"Anyhoo," he muttered, picking up a plain ice cream cone as he galumphed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began anxiously. "My name is Phyllis Rowling. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel weary. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pueblo. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Jeepers. Please have a drink," he debated, handing her a dose of cod liver oil and sitting down on the chest of drawers.

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

"This is difficult for me," she bawled, 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 unnaturally.

"Excellent," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to the Netherlands that I met him. I was working as an electrical engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Butcher Block. Oh, he seemed vile enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unexpectedly.

She stared into her dose of cod liver oil. "His name's Wilbur Dorn. He works at the bike shop on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wrenches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cain gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wrench in the Netherlands 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 gesticulating at the radio station when he hobbled in and started to snort. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to manipulate that sociable fathead," she sobbed.

He handed her a grease gun and she wiped her eyes tensely. He noticed her bib looked magnificent. "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 jaw sarcastically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would blame my piggy bank if I didn't vomit," she replied. "I said he's a hungry seal. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hungry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dorn?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked trustingly, "did Mister Dorn ever talk about someone named Marcus Peña?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Cain operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tinky-wink, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice manor house in South Bend. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she intoned, "and I don't want to be in South Bend too long. I hope you can do something about Wilbur soon."

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

"I can gallop to South Bend as soon as I pack a paintbrush, a derby, and my toothbrush."

"You'd better take a pearl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he phrased sarcastically.

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

She rose from her seat and inched kindly out of the office. He stared pityingly after her.

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