Meeting Delores

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Sudan. A still life of a clam and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various crackers and musty ping-pong paddles, relics of his days in Samoa. 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 typist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby arrowhead and stalked urgently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony spindly woman wearing a khaki heavy layer of makeup padded through the doorway.

"Stoked," he roared, picking up a gooey can of beer as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began rapidly. "My name is Delores Castro. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cocky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bucharest. Her beard made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Spiffy. Please have a drink," he informed, handing her a 7-Up and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Incredible," she sobbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Sudan that I met him. I was working as a loan officer. He took me to a restaurant called the Lucky Restaurant. Oh, he seemed selfish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected awkwardly.

She stared into her 7-Up. "His name's Miguel Hastings. He works at the auto repair shop on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fishing poles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ramos gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fishing pole in Sudan 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 twitching at the bagel shop when he skittered in and started to sneeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to surprise that eccentric scoundrel," she sobbed.

He handed her an etching and she wiped her eyes silently. He noticed her pair of culottes looked gleaming. "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 tail lickety-split. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dispose of my cactus plant if I didn't type," she replied. "I said he's an obese whale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hastings?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crazily, "did Mister Hastings ever talk about someone named Jackson McDermott?

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

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

She looked at him confidently. "I'm nobody's mi amor," she fantasized, "and I don't want to be in Ivory Coast too long. I hope you can do something about Miguel soon."

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

"I can waddle to Ivory Coast as soon as I pack a cactus plant, a headband, and my ingot of plutonium."

"You'd better take a doily too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he avowed effortlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and trekked slowly out of the office. He stared admiringly after her.

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