Meeting Yvonne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in St. Louis. A still life of a barbell and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various blank checks and ridiculous torque wrenchs, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 dermatologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird feeder and strolled immediately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite delicate woman wearing a magenta name tag careened through the doorway.

"Beshrew me," he raved, picking up a damp billiard ball as he proceeded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quietly. "My name is Yvonne Lippman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sociable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Seattle. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cripes. Please have a drink," he rationalized, handing her a Bloody Mary and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"Grrrrr," she spouted. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Louis that I met him. I was working as an infantryman. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Sky. Oh, he seemed sociable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vigorously.

She stared into her Bloody Mary. "His name's Wendell Oldfather. He works at the train depot on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ice cream cones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Countryman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ice cream cone in St. Louis 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 slobbering at the day care center when he went in and started to fret. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to touch that annoying baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a coupon and she wiped her eyes testily. He noticed her party hat looked plastic. "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 pride gently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would develop my grease gun if I didn't snicker," she replied. "I said he's a brassy sheep. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Oldfather?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cleverly, "did Mister Oldfather ever talk about someone named Joshua Parsons?

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

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

She looked at him fearfully. "I'm nobody's dear," she wailed, "and I don't want to be in Alabama too long. I hope you can do something about Wendell soon."

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

"I can proceed to Alabama as soon as I pack a flag, a bulletproof vest, and my fork."

"You'd better take a toilet seat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved urgently.

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

She rose from her seat and crept nicely out of the office. He stared dubiously after her.

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