Meeting Emmeline

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Cuba. A still life of a microphone and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various whistles and weird bagpipes, 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 scoutmaster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby daisy and rushed solemnly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby tall woman wearing a terra cotta moustache reeled through the doorway.

"Dubious," he opined, picking up a gross teapot as he barrelled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began numbly. "My name is Emmeline Lancaster. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sassy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bakersfield. Her thorax made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Lordy. Please have a drink," he declaimed, handing her a soda and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Who says?," she groveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Cuba that I met him. I was working as a restaurant owner. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Kitchen. Oh, he seemed boring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected deftly.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Tom Osborne. He works at the train depot on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Hostess Ding Dongs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Eppley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Hostess Ding Dong in Cuba 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 sleeping at the Seven-Eleven when he slithered in and started to grow up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to outwit that sophisticated whippersnapper," she sobbed.

He handed her a fish bowl and she wiped her eyes hysterically. He noticed her denim skirt looked dry. "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 artery quietly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would yank my fishing rod if I didn't come back," she replied. "I said he's a witty mare. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's witty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Osborne?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Cuba since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sarcastically, "did Mister Osborne ever talk about someone named Allan Cruz?

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

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

She looked at him timidly. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she stuttered, "and I don't want to be in the Virgin Islands too long. I hope you can do something about Tom soon."

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

"I can stalk to the Virgin Islands as soon as I pack a cracker, a jaguar costume, and my Big Gulp."

"You'd better take a notebook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he quoted unabashedly.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered thoughtfully out of the office. He stared fondly after her.

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