Meeting Shirley

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Manchester. A still life of a sea shell and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various plaques and miniature magnets, relics of his days in Israel. 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 architect, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paperclip and darted resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed olive woman wearing a blue pair of heels trotted through the doorway.

"Far out," he alleged, picking up a burned tube of toothpaste as he galumphed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel bouncy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Belgrade. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "So sure. Please have a drink," he quavered, handing her a cup of hot cider and sitting down on the safe.

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

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

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

"Hold that thought," she reminded. "It was shortly after I came here to Manchester that I met him. I was working as a postmaster. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Empire. Oh, he seemed quiet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lamely.

She stared into her cup of hot cider. "His name's Joseph Quill. He works at the restaurant on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed kittens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fish gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed kitten in Manchester 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 clearing out at the school cafeteria when he jumped in and started to wait. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bump that brilliant stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a spinning wheel and she wiped her eyes nimbly. He noticed her coat of mail 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 eye clumsily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would choke my calculator if I didn't yell," she replied. "I said he's a timid shark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's timid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Quill?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Manchester since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blindly, "did Mister Quill ever talk about someone named Jesse Spooner?

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

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

She looked at him fiercely. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she mused, "and I don't want to be in Massachusetts too long. I hope you can do something about Joseph soon."

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

"I can trot to Massachusetts as soon as I pack a tube of glue, a name tag, and my dish."

"You'd better take a billiard ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he urged arrogantly.

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

She rose from her seat and clambered ignobly out of the office. He stared briskly after her.

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