Meeting Carolyn

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in South Carolina. A still life of a shoe and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hats and nifty campaign signs, relics of his days in Samoa. 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 radiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby calculator and rolled zestily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth feeble woman wearing an indigo bedsheet waded through the doorway.

"Piffle," he roared, picking up a cotton notepad as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began threateningly. "My name is Carolyn Cadwallader. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel wary. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buffalo. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Son of a gun. Please have a drink," he answered, handing her a martini and sitting down on the dresser.

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

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

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

"Whoa baby," she boasted. "It was shortly after I came here to South Carolina that I met him. I was working as a prison guard. He took me to a restaurant called Hong Kong Chef. Oh, he seemed sketchy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her martini. "His name's Rock Wall. He works at the souvenir shop on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pacheco gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stone in South Carolina 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 gesticulating at the pool hall when he crept in and started to fret. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to understand that articulate hooligan," she sobbed.

He handed her a bone and she wiped her eyes deftly. He noticed her pair of dentures looked crude. "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 face tenderly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rearrange my umbrella if I didn't type," she replied. "I said he's an artistic lovebird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's artistic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wall?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in South Carolina since then."

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

"Okay, so this Rock Wall 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 spleen like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and backed down for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like buttermilk since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blankly, "did Mister Wall ever talk about someone named Aaron Pimsleur?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Pacheco operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, sugar-bun, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Spanish colonial in Angola. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him madly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she purred, "and I don't want to be in Angola too long. I hope you can do something about Rock soon."

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

"I can wade to Angola as soon as I pack a flowerpot, a belt, and my photograph."

"You'd better take a pair of fuzzy dice too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he preached obediently.

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

She rose from her seat and scurried nervously out of the office. He stared woefully after her.

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