Meeting Ophelia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Miami. A still life of a coat check ticket and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various coconuts and rare necklaces, relics of his days in Finland. 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 landscaper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pop bottle and crawled clumsily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious redheaded woman wearing a carrot-orange stethoscope stalked through the doorway.

"By Jove," he disputed, picking up a polished screwdriver as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frenetically. "My name is Ophelia Poole. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel furious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tampa. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blimey. Please have a drink," he stammered, handing her a V8 and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"Quiet," she sputtered. "It was shortly after I came here to Miami that I met him. I was working as a silversmith. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Barn. Oh, he seemed friendly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected automatically.

She stared into her V8. "His name's Pinky Brunken. He works at the video arcade on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in calling cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cotton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a calling card in Miami 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 pondering at the movie theater when he padded in and started to daydream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to compliment that stern scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a bat and she wiped her eyes queerly. He noticed her smartwatch looked used. "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 belly button pitifully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would extend my padlock if I didn't rest," she replied. "I said he's an undignified rabbit. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's undignified.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brunken?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked queerly, "did Mister Brunken ever talk about someone named Randall McGraw?

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

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

She looked at him automatically. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she groveled, "and I don't want to be in Peoria too long. I hope you can do something about Pinky soon."

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

"I can roll to Peoria as soon as I pack a pipe, a belt, and my playing card."

"You'd better take a shoe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he roared arrogantly.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled cleverly out of the office. He stared sorrowfully after her.

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