Meeting Olivia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Atlanta. A still life of a feather and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various handkerchiefs and crisp cookbooks, relics of his days in Argentina. 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 folk singer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of ice and rushed gingerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small small woman wearing an ivory stethoscope paraded through the doorway.

"I doubt it," he wondered, picking up a gross iPhone as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began craftily. "My name is Olivia Green. 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 Charleston. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Chirp. Please have a drink," he divulged, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"OMG," she snorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Atlanta that I met him. I was working as a calligrapher. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Stone. Oh, he seemed gallant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected surreptitiously.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Doug Zimmer. He works at the pharmacy on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in lemons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shackleton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a lemon in Atlanta 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 talking at the library when he dashed in and started to burp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dump that sensible ghoul," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of beer and she wiped her eyes sourly. He noticed her pair of boxing gloves looked mysterious. "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 dignity calmly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would compress my bottle if I didn't fulminate," she replied. "I said he's a demented bunny. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zimmer?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Atlanta since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Zimmer ever talk about someone named Helmut Weinstein?

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

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

She looked at him frenetically. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she chortled, "and I don't want to be in Anaheim too long. I hope you can do something about Doug soon."

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

"I can sprint to Anaheim as soon as I pack an acorn, a belt buckle, and my avocado."

"You'd better take a Lego set too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he avowed admiringly.

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

She rose from her seat and loped glibly out of the office. He stared blankly after her.

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