Meeting Polly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in the Solomon Islands. A still life of an arrowhead and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various magazines and used flashlights, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 pianist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flyswatter and dove unnaturally toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty alert woman wearing an aqua jerkin slid through the doorway.

"For cryin' out loud," he continued, picking up a ruined fishhook as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began victoriously. "My name is Polly DeGraff. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel masculine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Minneapolis. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Very funny. Please have a drink," he phrased, handing her a latte and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Nuts," she hollered. "It was shortly after I came here to the Solomon Islands that I met him. I was working as a trader. He took me to a restaurant called European Apple. Oh, he seemed garrulous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lamely.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Gilbert Craven. He works at the saloon on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in boxes of Kleenex."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jackson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a box of Kleenex in the Solomon Islands 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 flinching at the ski resort when he crept in and started to huff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to soothe that taciturn rascal," she sobbed.

He handed her a ticket and she wiped her eyes lovingly. He noticed her straitjacket looked puzzling. "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 bicep slyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slam my fingernail clipper if I didn't curtsey," she replied. "I said he's a shifty German Shepherd. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shifty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Craven?"

"Only a year; I've only been in the Solomon Islands since then."

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

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

He sounded more articulate 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 groaned for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a hospital since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked perkily, "did Mister Craven ever talk about someone named Lonnie Gates?

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

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

She looked at him briskly. "I'm nobody's doll," she judged, "and I don't want to be in Zambia too long. I hope you can do something about Gilbert soon."

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

"I can prance to Zambia as soon as I pack a vacuum cleaner, a cardigan, and my peach."

"You'd better take a pair of pliers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he nattered queerly.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed woodenly out of the office. He stared craftily after her.

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