Meeting Patricia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in New Haven. A still life of a mirror and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bottles of perfume and flaky bones, relics of his days in Saudi Arabia. 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 vacuum cleaner salesman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flash drive and leapt cheerfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky angelic woman wearing a carrot-orange skirt sauntered through the doorway.

"Knock me over with a feather," he demanded, picking up a small basketball as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began testily. "My name is Patricia Marino. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel noble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fullerton. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "W00t. Please have a drink," he shouted, handing her a beer and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Big whoop," she requested. "It was shortly after I came here to New Haven that I met him. I was working as a butler. He took me to a restaurant called the Hungry Pasta Bar. Oh, he seemed polite enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected temperamentally.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Nate Marsh. He works at the saloon on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper airplanes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Van Dorn gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper airplane in New Haven 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 swooning at the library when he scooted in and started to chortle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lose that ungainly whippersnapper," she sobbed.

He handed her a bell and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her pair of pantaloons 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 stomach daringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shave my bottle if I didn't glower," she replied. "I said he's a bad sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bad.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marsh?"

"Only a month; I've only been in New Haven since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sourly, "did Mister Marsh ever talk about someone named Jacob Oldfather?

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

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

She looked at him energetically. "I'm nobody's beefcake," she asserted, "and I don't want to be in New York too long. I hope you can do something about Nate soon."

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

"I can wade to New York as soon as I pack an antenna, a nose ring, and my book."

"You'd better take a lollipop too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he brought up woefully.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded fearlessly out of the office. He stared coldly after her.

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