Meeting Velma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Portland. A still life of a basketball and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various oriental vases and unusual rags, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 mediator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of knitting needles and waded tearfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied muscular woman wearing a fuchsia polo shirt flounced through the doorway.

"Ouch," he rationalized, picking up a disgusting suitcase as he tiptoed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began firmly. "My name is Velma Weiss. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel statuesque. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Yonkers. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aha. Please have a drink," he yawned, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Ick," she wailed. "It was shortly after I came here to Portland that I met him. I was working as an exterminator. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Table. Oh, he seemed rugged enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cheerfully.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Dick Ford. He works at the nail salon on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in playing cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Oswald gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a playing card 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 doodling at the Wal-Mart when he danced in and started to fret. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bite that stubborn troglodyte," she sobbed.

He handed her a bag of groceries and she wiped her eyes sternly. He noticed her sundress looked prickly. "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 wig hungrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rebuild my cane if I didn't look angry," she replied. "I said he's a disorganized finch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's disorganized.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ford?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Portland since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quietly, "did Mister Ford ever talk about someone named Matthew Gordon?

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

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

She looked at him surreptitiously. "I'm nobody's mopsy," she pleaded, "and I don't want to be in Corpus Christi too long. I hope you can do something about Dick soon."

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

"I can tumble to Corpus Christi as soon as I pack a bowling ball, a pair of toe shoes, and my can of sardines."

"You'd better take an apple too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he decided tensely.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched gracefully out of the office. He stared warmly after her.

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