Meeting Phyllis

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Trenton. A still life of a battery and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bird cages and stuffed dolls, relics of his days in the United States. 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 petroleum engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corncob and scooted patiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin albino woman wearing an olive drab Superman costume strode through the doorway.

"Son of a Baptist preacher," he pleaded, picking up a golden hair brush as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel refined. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hastings. Her Adam's apple made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Heck. Please have a drink," he spouted, handing her a beer and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Hold your horses," she cajoled. "It was shortly after I came here to Trenton that I met him. I was working as a journalist. He took me to a restaurant called the Stone Trading Post. Oh, he seemed sleek enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected madly.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Butch Nilsson. He works at the dry cleaner on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in clams."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Thomas gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a clam in Trenton 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 fidgeting at the bedroom when he rushed in and started to sneeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to charm that vacuous pervert," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishing pole and she wiped her eyes cautiously. He noticed her polo shirt looked colossal. "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 earlobe offhandedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would drench my joint if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's a thoughtful bullfrog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's thoughtful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nilsson?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Trenton since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warily, "did Mister Nilsson ever talk about someone named Rip Weber?

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

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

She looked at him sagely. "I'm nobody's tootsie," she blustered, "and I don't want to be in Springfield too long. I hope you can do something about Butch soon."

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

"I can dart to Springfield as soon as I pack an Egyptian mummy, a bracelet, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a fire hose too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he wondered sharply.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded hopelessly out of the office. He stared joyously after her.

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