Meeting Elvira

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Concord. A still life of a scythe and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dishes and ruined campaign signs, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 optician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rope and cantered ingeniously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf tall woman wearing a white blazer crawled through the doorway.

"Aaack," he vowed, picking up a bulky necklace as he set out to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lickety-split. "My name is Elvira Abrams. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel enchanting. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pasadena. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to. Please have a drink," he raved, handing her a bottle of rum and sitting down on the TV.

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

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

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

"Pshaw," she yowled. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as an air traffic controller. He took me to a restaurant called the Hungry Island. Oh, he seemed dignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected madly.

She stared into her bottle of rum. "His name's Stuart Paulson. He works at the shoe store on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ashe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flag in Concord 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 snarling at the closet when he skittered in and started to play Duck Duck Goose. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to malign that crafty lubberly lout," she sobbed.

He handed her a teapot and she wiped her eyes trustingly. He noticed her pair of roller skates looked overgrown. "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 back fondly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would describe my backpack if I didn't dress up," she replied. "I said he's a depraved chimpanzee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's depraved.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Paulson?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Concord since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ruefully, "did Mister Paulson ever talk about someone named Harold Van Veen?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's kitten," she peeped, "and I don't want to be in Massachusetts too long. I hope you can do something about Stuart soon."

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

"I can saunter to Massachusetts as soon as I pack a Rubik's cube, a stethoscope, and my cracker."

"You'd better take a can of beer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed innocently.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline steadily out of the office. He stared craftily after her.

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