Meeting Shirley

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Buenos Aires. A still life of a pencil and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various barbells and peculiar notebooks, relics of his days in Latvia. 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 mattress tester, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bagpipe and pranced wildly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic lean woman wearing an aquamarine pair of knickers tramped through the doorway.

"Deranged," he preached, picking up a cardboard saddle as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grudgingly. "My name is Shirley McGraw. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel annoying. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Grand Prairie. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Doggone. Please have a drink," he declaimed, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Nope," she tittered. "It was shortly after I came here to Buenos Aires that I met him. I was working as an elevator operator. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Holiday. Oh, he seemed atrocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fearlessly.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Hugh Eklund. He works at the pastry shop on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tops."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ali gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a top in Buenos Aires 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 rejoicing at the Seven-Eleven when he inched in and started to kneel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to challenge that stubby wraith," she sobbed.

He handed her a crate and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her feather boa looked rigid. "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 vein oddly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would honor my yardstick if I didn't hiccup," she replied. "I said he's a taciturn cow. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's taciturn.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Eklund?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blindly, "did Mister Eklund ever talk about someone named Macon Yastremski?

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

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

She looked at him crossly. "I'm nobody's treasure," she voiced, "and I don't want to be in Cyprus too long. I hope you can do something about Hugh soon."

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

"I can jump to Cyprus as soon as I pack a curling iron, a jacket, and my pair of pliers."

"You'd better take a protest sign too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he revealed dolefully.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered curiously out of the office. He stared positively after her.

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