Meeting Iris

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Albuquerque. A still life of a top and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various model airplanes and overgrown cigarettes, relics of his days in China. 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 barista, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coffee pot and stalked deftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky neat woman wearing a brilliant orange rain coat barrelled through the doorway.

"Feh," he moaned, picking up a broken feather duster as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sorrowfully. "My name is Iris Bean. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Belfast. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yep. Please have a drink," he added, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Godspeed," she continued. "It was shortly after I came here to Albuquerque that I met him. I was working as a construction worker. He took me to a restaurant called the Hungry Lunchery. Oh, he seemed queer enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woodenly.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Doug Norton. He works at the train depot on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in horseshoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Remington gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a horseshoe in Albuquerque 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 gasping at the Wal-Mart when he sidled in and started to dilly-dally. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that daring moonie," she sobbed.

He handed her a yo-yo and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her parka looked golden. "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 forehead unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would split my duffel bag if I didn't clear out," she replied. "I said he's a naïve boa constrictor. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's naïve.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Norton?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Albuquerque 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 Doug Norton is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked recklessly, "did Mister Norton ever talk about someone named Wallace Beach?

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

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

She looked at him curiously. "I'm nobody's sweet," she contended, "and I don't want to be in Somalia too long. I hope you can do something about Doug soon."

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

"I can careen to Somalia as soon as I pack a comic book, a pair of Groucho glasses, and my Bunsen burner."

"You'd better take a bottle of painkillers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he said patiently.

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

She rose from her seat and reeled accidentally out of the office. He stared quietly after her.

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