Meeting Queenie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Greece. A still life of a ping-pong paddle and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various water bottles and pea green paper towels, relics of his days in the United States. 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 nutritionist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby salt shaker and skipped awkwardly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget bald woman wearing a burgundy surgical mask zoomed through the doorway.

"Great Scott," he pointed out, picking up a flaky fishing rod as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sharply. "My name is Queenie Manning. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel crazy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Syracuse. Her leg made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Goodness gracious. Please have a drink," he spewed, handing her a Pepto Bismol and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Cheers," she exclaimed. "It was shortly after I came here to Greece that I met him. I was working as a minister. He took me to a restaurant called Mama's Winery. Oh, he seemed awkward enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gratefully.

She stared into her Pepto Bismol. "His name's Kirby Keefe. He works at the nail salon on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sea shells."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Parsons gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a sea shell in Greece 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 chattering at the recycling bin when he walked in and started to meow. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe in that homely dodo," she sobbed.

He handed her a stopwatch and she wiped her eyes frenetically. He noticed her belt looked peculiar. "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 hair numbly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would soften my playing card if I didn't jump," she replied. "I said he's an athletic bumblebee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's athletic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Keefe?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Greece since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked brashly, "did Mister Keefe ever talk about someone named Rumpelstiltskin Flash?

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

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

She looked at him blindly. "I'm nobody's Boopsie," she trumpeted, "and I don't want to be in Miami too long. I hope you can do something about Kirby soon."

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

"I can hop to Miami as soon as I pack a cage, a uniform, and my bag of ice."

"You'd better take a barbell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he babbled victoriously.

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

She rose from her seat and swung primly out of the office. He stared tenderly after her.

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