Meeting Beulah

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought steadily. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling microphones 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 banana and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various barbells and huge buckets, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 errand runner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chess set and staggered wildly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky dinky woman wearing an aquamarine gorilla suit tramped through the doorway.

"Lo and behold," he guessed, picking up a polished stuffed kitten as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began perkily. "My name is Beulah Marsden. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Corpus Christi. Her tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shoo. Please have a drink," he pleaded, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Hold that thought," she protested. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as a blogger. He took me to a restaurant called In and Out Pasta Bar. Oh, he seemed queer enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Vernon Feldman. He works at the jewelry store on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in peaches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Seaman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a peach 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 inhaling at the miniature golf course when he hobbled in and started to apologize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lie to that decent good-for-nothing," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigarette lighter and she wiped her eyes grimly. He noticed her pair of cowboy boots looked waxy. "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 kidney jokingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wash my flag if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's an ungainly salamander. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's ungainly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Feldman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quietly, "did Mister Feldman ever talk about someone named Emile Greer?

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

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

She looked at him blissfully. "I'm nobody's big lug," she wailed, "and I don't want to be in Jersey City too long. I hope you can do something about Vernon soon."

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

"I can whirl to Jersey City as soon as I pack a candle, a pair of gloves, and my bicycle."

"You'd better take a candle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bragged tensely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred seventy-five dollars as a retainer," she replied swiftly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of beach balls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sashayed numbly out of the office. He stared ignobly after her.

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