Meeting Holly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Antarctica. A still life of a sack and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dead cougars and jagged cans of beer, relics of his days in Ethiopia. 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 lawyer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby lollipop and sauntered merrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal angelic woman wearing a teal pair of heels dove through the doorway.

"Nice," he professed, picking up a golden map as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shakily. "My name is Holly McDiggles. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gallant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gillette. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "W00t. Please have a drink," he sputtered, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Zounds," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Antarctica that I met him. I was working as a barber. He took me to a restaurant called New York Sky. Oh, he seemed sketchy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unnaturally.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Bub Singh. He works at the clothing store on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bagpipes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Paulson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bagpipe in Antarctica 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 digesting at the wine tasting when he slid in and started to sneer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to love that bald dummy," she sobbed.

He handed her a model airplane and she wiped her eyes suddenly. He noticed her suit of armor 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 pancreas needlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would observe my painting if I didn't sway," she replied. "I said he's a brave dolphin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brave.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Singh?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Antarctica since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked needlessly, "did Mister Singh ever talk about someone named Buster Porterfield?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him nervously. "I'm nobody's princess," she panted, "and I don't want to be in Barcelona too long. I hope you can do something about Bub soon."

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

"I can inch to Barcelona as soon as I pack a model airplane, a polo shirt, and my box of Kleenex."

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

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

She rose from her seat and strode courteously out of the office. He stared fiercely after her.

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