Meeting Emmeline

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Concord. A still life of a crystal ball and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various protest signs and queer pillows, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 performer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fish and breezed cheerfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature sorrowful woman wearing a blue wet suit sashayed through the doorway.

"Crikey," he spewed, picking up an electric top as he sauntered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began innocently. "My name is Emmeline Morrison. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mesa. Her spine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "When pigs fly. Please have a drink," he bawled, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the dresser.

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

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

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

"Encore," she squawked. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as a hit man. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Terrace. Oh, he seemed spindly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ignobly.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Chad McCord. He works at the craft store on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in umbrellas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lombardi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an umbrella in Concord 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 laughing at the laundromat when he tore in and started to wake up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scare that bilious imp," she sobbed.

He handed her a pail and she wiped her eyes nervously. He noticed her letter jacket looked prickly. "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 skull perkily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lynch my pencil sharpener if I didn't think," she replied. "I said he's a lively chameleon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lively.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McCord?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fearlessly, "did Mister McCord ever talk about someone named Helmut Thompson?

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

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

She looked at him smoothly. "I'm nobody's toodleums," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Grand Rapids too long. I hope you can do something about Chad soon."

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

"I can hobble to Grand Rapids as soon as I pack a sponge, an award medal, and my barbell."

"You'd better take a paintbrush too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he affirmed sternly.

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

She rose from her seat and rushed lickety-split out of the office. He stared stupidly after her.

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