Meeting Emmeline

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Concord. A still life of a cotton ball and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various helmets and bizarre pacifiers, relics of his days in Latvia. 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 obstetrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dog biscuit and hopped pitifully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard undersized woman wearing a violet towel sped through the doorway.

"Jeez," he sniveled, picking up a hand-carved floppy disk as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel elderly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mogadishu. Her mouth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Jehosaphat. Please have a drink," he squeaked, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Uh," she expressed. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as a woodcarver. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Buffet. Oh, he seemed dismal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sternly.

She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Abel Prang. He works at the perfumery on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of sardines."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Osterman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of sardines 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 lounging at the swimming pool when he traipsed in and started to talk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to listen to that furry crackpot," she sobbed.

He handed her a battery and she wiped her eyes hastily. He noticed her coat looked gooey. "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 spleen nonchalantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would recognize my kite if I didn't look smart," she replied. "I said he's a deadly louse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's deadly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Prang?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sagely, "did Mister Prang ever talk about someone named Damon Santos?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Osterman operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, dear heart, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice mobile home in Vancouver. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him diligently. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she disputed, "and I don't want to be in Vancouver too long. I hope you can do something about Abel soon."

"I'll do my best, knight in shining armor. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can skitter to Vancouver as soon as I pack a whoopee cushion, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and my diary."

"You'd better take a playing card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved sharply.

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled blissfully out of the office. He stared numbly after her.

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