Meeting Doris

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Springfield. A still life of a Big Gulp and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paintbrushes and original church keys, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 goldsmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stack of papers and paraded resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature muscular woman wearing a purple polo shirt paraded through the doorway.

"Meow," he mumbled, picking up a ridiculous pen as he reeled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began confidently. "My name is Doris Dodd. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stinky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Detroit. Her pride made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pshaw. Please have a drink," he railed, handing her a shot of bourbon and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Zounds," she groveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Springfield that I met him. I was working as a telemarketer. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Dragon. Oh, he seemed garrulous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected threateningly.

She stared into her shot of bourbon. "His name's Rodney Owens. He works at the bank on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hacksaws."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grover gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hacksaw in Springfield 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 talking at the laundromat when he bounced in and started to quiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that vacuous monster," she sobbed.

He handed her a peach and she wiped her eyes shyly. He noticed her turtleneck looked filthy. "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 chin deliberately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would darken my hair brush if I didn't creep," she replied. "I said he's a wicked unicorn. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wicked.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Owens?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Springfield since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warily, "did Mister Owens ever talk about someone named Gavin Ulster?

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

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

She looked at him ignobly. "I'm nobody's sparky," she remarked, "and I don't want to be in Rochester too long. I hope you can do something about Rodney soon."

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

"I can clamber to Rochester as soon as I pack a magnifying glass, a hoop skirt, and my ball."

"You'd better take a Kindle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he burbled immediately.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered silently out of the office. He stared daringly after her.

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