Meeting May

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Liverpool. A still life of a baby doll and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various garbage cans and gaudy mops, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 police officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cigarette and galloped sorrowfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby white woman wearing a black pair of bloomers dove through the doorway.

"Boy howdy," he swore, picking up a broken cupcake as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began thoughtfully. "My name is May Hoffmann. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel selfish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Alexandria. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Mommy. Please have a drink," he squeaked, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Mother of peanut butter," she whispered. "It was shortly after I came here to Liverpool that I met him. I was working as a jeweler. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Goose. Oh, he seemed emotional enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected smoothly.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Nick Cadwallader. He works at the photography studio on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in orchids."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fox gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an orchid in Liverpool 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 fretting at the tattoo parlor when he sallied forth in and started to chortle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to apologize to that colorless bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a paperweight and she wiped her eyes gracefully. He noticed her tinfoil hat looked wooden. "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 warmly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ruin my business card if I didn't flinch," she replied. "I said he's an energetic teddy bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's energetic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cadwallader?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Liverpool since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fondly, "did Mister Cadwallader ever talk about someone named Barnabas Domínguez?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a wag of the finger.

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

She looked at him hastily. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she whined, "and I don't want to be in Madagascar too long. I hope you can do something about Nick soon."

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

"I can bounce to Madagascar as soon as I pack a fishing rod, a pair of Groucho glasses, and my blank check."

"You'd better take a bowl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he appealed pityingly.

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

She rose from her seat and jumped demurely out of the office. He stared stealthily after her.

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