Meeting Elaine

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Des Moines. A still life of a pair of safety glasses and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various staplers and gross wastebaskets, relics of his days in Japan. 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 costume designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basketball and danced vacantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely disheveled woman wearing a chartreuse beard slunk through the doorway.

"Ha," he enunciated, picking up a striking painting as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tensely. "My name is Elaine Lancaster. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel maniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Jersey City. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good golly. Please have a drink," he muttered, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"Alright," she babbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Des Moines that I met him. I was working as a fourth grade teacher. He took me to a restaurant called the Dancing Hideaway. Oh, he seemed adorable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected urgently.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's White Cloud Romer. He works at the gift shop on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in primroses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Marlowe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a primrose in Des Moines 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 seething at the school cafeteria when he barrelled in and started to jiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spill a secret potion on that modest wastrel," she sobbed.

He handed her a paperclip and she wiped her eyes grudgingly. He noticed her bowler hat looked magnificent. "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 stomach bitterly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enshrine my corncob if I didn't nod," she replied. "I said he's an articulate moose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's articulate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Romer?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Des Moines since then."

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

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

He sounded more sophisticated 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 quivered for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like jasmine since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked elatedly, "did Mister Romer ever talk about someone named Samuel Vigil?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him numbly. "I'm nobody's pipkin," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in Botswana too long. I hope you can do something about White Cloud soon."

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

"I can stalk to Botswana as soon as I pack an arrowhead, a pair of boxer shorts, and my deck of cards."

"You'd better take an ice cream cone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hinted daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered boldly out of the office. He stared rapidly after her.

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