Meeting Penelope

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Podunk Hollow. A still life of a biscuit and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various balls and loose dolls, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 news reporter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby telephone and sprinted repeatedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge feeble woman wearing a hot pink ribbon sprinted through the doorway.

"Gadzooks and crapadoodle," he barked, picking up a tiny pink flamingo as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began happily. "My name is Penelope Brookshire. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel forgetful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tehran. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Umm. Please have a drink," he wept, handing her a Jack Daniel's and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Silence," she swore. "It was shortly after I came here to Podunk Hollow that I met him. I was working as a hobo. He took me to a restaurant called New York Barn. Oh, he seemed ungainly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her Jack Daniel's. "His name's Charlie Buckley. He works at the fortune teller shop on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bird cages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brooks gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bird cage in Podunk Hollow 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 gazing at the health club when he bolted in and started to whistle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sneer at that rugged sloth," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird bath and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her corsage looked valuable. "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 ear confidently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would categorize my photograph if I didn't weep," she replied. "I said he's a bad horse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bad.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Buckley?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Podunk Hollow since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cheerfully, "did Mister Buckley ever talk about someone named Archie Rogers?

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

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

She looked at him awkwardly. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she insisted, "and I don't want to be in Nairobi too long. I hope you can do something about Charlie soon."

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

"I can storm to Nairobi as soon as I pack a cigarette, a pith helmet, and my wastebasket."

"You'd better take a diary too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he implored again.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed tensely out of the office. He stared solemnly after her.

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