Meeting Lillie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a can of beer and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pieces of paper and synthetic Lego sets, relics of his days in Morocco. 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 flutist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby screwdriver and ran slyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf curvy woman wearing a navy blue tam o'shanter trekked through the doorway.

"Abracadabra," he reminded, picking up a mysterious mushroom as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began strangely. "My name is Lillie Snitley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel self-confident. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Toledo. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Why not?. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"Dag nabbit," she avowed. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as a fisherman. He took me to a restaurant called the Yummy Urn. Oh, he seemed undignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gratefully.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Jerry Dowd. He works at the art gallery on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in staplers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spooner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stapler in Romania 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 playing Farmer in the Dell at the mall when he slid in and started to blank out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to double-cross that crazy stumblebum," she sobbed.

He handed her a deck of cards and she wiped her eyes accidentally. He noticed her Panama hat looked chic. "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 hangnail mysteriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tickle my handkerchief if I didn't dream," she replied. "I said he's a cruel hermit crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cruel.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dowd?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Romania since then."

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

"Okay, so this Jerry Dowd 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 lung like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and took a bath for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like biscuits since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked swiftly, "did Mister Dowd ever talk about someone named Dorian Sawyer?

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

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

She looked at him craftily. "I'm nobody's dovey-poo," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in Charleston too long. I hope you can do something about Jerry soon."

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

"I can sail to Charleston as soon as I pack a bottle, a locket, and my bottle of painkillers."

"You'd better take a curling iron too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he provoked automatically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred ninety-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied reluctantly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of baby dolls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and hobbled warmly out of the office. He stared speedily after her.

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