Meeting Polly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Washington. A still life of a towel and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pinwheels and leather calling cards, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 social media influencer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby comic book and trotted bitterly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny cadaverous woman wearing a salmon fur coat slipped through the doorway.

"Malarkey," he fantasized, picking up a rigid cookbook as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began irritably. "My name is Polly Krivosha. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel lethargic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dublin. Her skull made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Knock me over with a feather. Please have a drink," he yelled, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the floor.

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

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

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

"Kaboom," she murmured. "It was shortly after I came here to Washington that I met him. I was working as a wallpaper hanger. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Cornucopia. Oh, he seemed merry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected miserably.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Vic Romer. He works at the tattoo parlor on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cactus plants."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cole gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cactus plant in Washington 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 watching at the city park when he skittered in and started to come back. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to doubt that ignoble blackguard," she sobbed.

He handed her a cell phone and she wiped her eyes urgently. He noticed her set of vampire fangs looked odd. "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 Achilles tendon vacantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stash my clam if I didn't lounge," she replied. "I said he's a moody reindeer. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moody.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Romer?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Washington since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gruffly, "did Mister Romer ever talk about someone named Joshua Simmons?

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

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

She looked at him despondently. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she spouted, "and I don't want to be in Oxford too long. I hope you can do something about Vic soon."

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

"I can jog to Oxford as soon as I pack a picture, an 'I'm with Stupid' shirt, and my broom."

"You'd better take a chart too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bragged calmly.

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

She rose from her seat and capered warmly out of the office. He stared crazily after her.

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