Meeting Dusty

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Madison. A still life of a candle and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rags and wet pigeons, relics of his days in Chile. 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 bassoonist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pencil and scurried menacingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky pimply woman wearing a sea green pair of flip-flops tiptoed through the doorway.

"Wow," he amended, picking up a rare Hostess Ding Dong as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began boisterously. "My name is Dusty Sitting Bird. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel impish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Podunk Hollow. Her foot made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Awesome. Please have a drink," he chattered, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the cupboard.

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

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

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

"Ha," she vowed. "It was shortly after I came here to Madison that I met him. I was working as a puppeteer. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Bowl. Oh, he seemed sleepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Wes Kramer. He works at the coffee shop on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in corks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Potts gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cork in Madison 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 playing Farmer in the Dell at the health club when he dashed in and started to dawdle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe in that sloppy scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a blanket and she wiped her eyes tearfully. He noticed her smartwatch looked papery. "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 gall bladder daintily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dust my mousetrap if I didn't preach," she replied. "I said he's a tense lovebird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tense.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kramer?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Madison since then."

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

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

He sounded more pert than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his pinky like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and played Duck Duck Goose for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like burning trash since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked silently, "did Mister Kramer ever talk about someone named Desmond West?

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

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

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she inquired, "and I don't want to be in Massachusetts too long. I hope you can do something about Wes soon."

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

"I can tramp to Massachusetts as soon as I pack a cigarette lighter, a G-string, and my dart."

"You'd better take a box of Kleenex too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he maintained nicely.

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

She rose from her seat and scurried dolefully out of the office. He stared crankily after her.

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