Meeting Phyllis

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Orlando. A still life of a pickle and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various shoes and fuzzy boxes of candy, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 woodworker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of beans and went silently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender sexy woman wearing an orange fedora leapt through the doorway.

"What in tarnation," he realized, picking up a greasy paper airplane as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began arrogantly. "My name is Phyllis Dorn. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel happy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Nashville. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dag nabbit. Please have a drink," he murmured, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the ironing board.

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

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

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

"Man alive," she exclaimed. "It was shortly after I came here to Orlando that I met him. I was working as a quilter. He took me to a restaurant called the White Food Blitz. Oh, he seemed calm enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coolly.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Jess Cannon. He works at the butcher shop on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rubber stamps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fontanaro gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rubber stamp in Orlando 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 squinting at the wine tasting when he reeled in and started to party. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that calm dweeb," she sobbed.

He handed her a spool of thread and she wiped her eyes crazily. He noticed her shawl looked peculiar. "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 face woodenly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would close my tube of toothpaste if I didn't clap," she replied. "I said he's a frumpy coyote. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's frumpy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cannon?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Orlando since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gently, "did Mister Cannon ever talk about someone named Phillip Holland?

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

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

She looked at him strangely. "I'm nobody's sunshine," she whined, "and I don't want to be in Tahiti too long. I hope you can do something about Jess soon."

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

"I can sprint to Tahiti as soon as I pack a tube of glue, a motorcycle helmet, and my chair."

"You'd better take a whoopee cushion too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he ranted primly.

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

She rose from her seat and loped warmly out of the office. He stared softly after her.

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