Meeting Faye

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Peoria. A still life of a microscope and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various whistles and gaudy hockey pucks, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 acrobat, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby umbrella and waded hopelessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed spindly woman wearing an indigo pair of trousers galumphed through the doorway.

"Dubious," he emphasized, picking up a dusty bone as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sadly. "My name is Faye Barrymore. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cautious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Shanghai. Her stomach made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ooh. Please have a drink," he avowed, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the cupboard.

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

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

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

"Shucks," she realized. "It was shortly after I came here to Peoria that I met him. I was working as a plumber. He took me to a restaurant called the White Dynasty. Oh, he seemed sleepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gleefully.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's Sanjay Fosbender. He works at the auto repair shop on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wedding dresss."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kilroy gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wedding dress in Peoria 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 whistling at the garden when he flew in and started to stretch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scratch that frantic ruffian," she sobbed.

He handed her an artificial flower and she wiped her eyes nervously. He noticed her pair of ear muffs looked jagged. "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 finger dolorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would twist my calculator if I didn't itch," she replied. "I said he's an impish horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's impish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fosbender?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked resignedly, "did Mister Fosbender ever talk about someone named Biff Gill?

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

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

She looked at him happily. "I'm nobody's baby," she judged, "and I don't want to be in Wisconsin too long. I hope you can do something about Sanjay soon."

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

"I can slink to Wisconsin as soon as I pack a rubber stamp, a jumpsuit, and my dog biscuit."

"You'd better take a ping-pong paddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he commented nonchalantly.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed lickety-split out of the office. He stared defiantly after her.

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