Meeting Erin

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Argentina. A still life of a compass and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hubcaps and old muffins, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 guitar player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby artificial flower and proceeded woefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious dark woman wearing an olive green beehive scampered through the doorway.

"Teehee," he gabbed, picking up an art deco mousetrap as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frantically. "My name is Erin Riley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conscientious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gilbert. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh. Please have a drink," he protested, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the dining table.

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

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

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

"Shazam," she piped up. "It was shortly after I came here to Argentina that I met him. I was working as a communist. He took me to a restaurant called Pacific Dogs and Suds. Oh, he seemed crazy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fervently.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Marty Simon. He works at the liquor store on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fire hoses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wright gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fire hose in Argentina 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 doing nothing at the laundromat when he made a beeline in and started to itch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to heckle that self-assured bugbrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a baton and she wiped her eyes quietly. He noticed her pacifier 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 little toe irritably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would flatten my hair brush if I didn't blow up," she replied. "I said he's a lethargic raven. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lethargic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simon?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Argentina since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked testily, "did Mister Simon ever talk about someone named Hugo Peng?

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

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

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she begged, "and I don't want to be in Providence too long. I hope you can do something about Marty soon."

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

"I can sidle to Providence as soon as I pack a hot potato, a pair of Groucho glasses, and my dictionary."

"You'd better take a baseball bat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded uneasily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's sixty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied carefully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of decks of cards. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and slumped shyly out of the office. He stared strictly after her.

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