Meeting Reba

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in New York. A still life of a microscope and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pieces of candy and imitation mirrors, relics of his days in Sri Lanka. 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 gambler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby iPad and zoomed fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous bony woman wearing a turquoise pair of khakis clambered through the doorway.

"Um," he added, picking up a cardboard comb as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began deliberately. "My name is Reba Bishop. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fuzzy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Trenton. Her hoof made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Avast. Please have a drink," he vouched, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Glaack," she fumed. "It was shortly after I came here to New York that I met him. I was working as a mattress tester. He took me to a restaurant called Bountiful Lotus. Oh, he seemed jaunty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sternly.

She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Warren Shainberg. He works at the drug store on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bottles of perfume."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shakewell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bottle of perfume in New York 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 carrying on at the rock concert when he reeled in and started to fulminate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to examine that insane sloth," she sobbed.

He handed her a knitting needle and she wiped her eyes shakily. He noticed her necklace looked narrow. "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 funny bone resignedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would burn my mirror if I didn't belch," she replied. "I said he's a tired wombat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tired.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shainberg?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in New York since then."

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

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

He sounded more enthusiastic than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his mouth like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and threw up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like chocolate cake since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked sheepishly, "did Mister Shainberg ever talk about someone named Frank Slade?

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

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

She looked at him lamely. "I'm nobody's buddy," she chattered, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Warren soon."

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

"I can scamper to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a stamp, a jumper, and my mousetrap."

"You'd better take an apple too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he comforted fondly.

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

She rose from her seat and reeled sweetly out of the office. He stared sarcastically after her.

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