Meeting Doralene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Lansing. A still life of a pair of dice and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various packages and abnormal bags of ice, relics of his days in Albania. 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 machinist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crystal ball and skittered crankily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin grubby woman wearing a red tie sashayed through the doorway.

"Diddly poo," he vowed, picking up a puzzling Big Gulp as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coldly. "My name is Doralene Sarma. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel exuberant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Omaha. Her skull made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "What the dickens. Please have a drink," he winked, handing her a Mojito and sitting down on the chest of drawers.

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

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

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

"Absolutely," she complained. "It was shortly after I came here to Lansing that I met him. I was working as a civil servant. He took me to a restaurant called European Food Factory. Oh, he seemed refined enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her Mojito. "His name's Dick Irons. He works at the McDonalds on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in billfolds."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Campbell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a billfold in Lansing 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 looking puzzled at the mosque when he traipsed in and started to grunt. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to break that tactful dolt," she sobbed.

He handed her a water bottle and she wiped her eyes majestically. He noticed her pair of Reeboks looked fluffy. "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 gut again. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would trim my hockey puck if I didn't adjust the clock," she replied. "I said he's an unruffled louse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's unruffled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Irons?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked languidly, "did Mister Irons ever talk about someone named Josh Bianchi?

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

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

She looked at him sweetly. "I'm nobody's bud," she articulated, "and I don't want to be in Casablanca too long. I hope you can do something about Dick soon."

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

"I can stagger to Casablanca as soon as I pack a cupcake, a gunny sack, and my cupcake."

"You'd better take a mushroom too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fumed calmly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred sixty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied admiringly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of jars of olives. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and skipped speedily out of the office. He stared wearily after her.

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