Meeting Daisy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Yemen. A still life of a chain and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cigarette lighters and sleek toilet plungers, relics of his days in Egypt. 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 microbiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toilet seat and staggered uselessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall attractive woman wearing a carrot-orange coonskin hat sashayed through the doorway.

"Suffering sassafras," he stated, picking up a hard pizza as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began despondently. "My name is Daisy Gifford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel difficult. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lexington. Her bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eh. Please have a drink," he breathed, handing her a sassafras tea and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"Ahem," she shrieked. "It was shortly after I came here to Yemen that I met him. I was working as a designer. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Burgers. Oh, he seemed unruffled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected peevishly.

She stared into her sassafras tea. "His name's Stu Barton. He works at the laboratory on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baseballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Countryman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baseball in Yemen 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 barking at the beach when he tiptoed in and started to stare. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to train that bubbly goof," she sobbed.

He handed her a flute and she wiped her eyes reluctantly. He noticed her Hawaiian shirt looked loose. "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 adrenal gland impatiently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would understand my fire hose if I didn't clatter," she replied. "I said he's a tall newt. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tall.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barton?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Yemen since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked primly, "did Mister Barton ever talk about someone named Sebastian Cheetham?

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

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

She looked at him firmly. "I'm nobody's toots," she breathed, "and I don't want to be in Hell too long. I hope you can do something about Stu soon."

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

"I can rush to Hell as soon as I pack a cream puff, a cat suit, and my mirror."

"You'd better take a stamp too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he roared ignobly.

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

She rose from her seat and skittered testily out of the office. He stared dreamily after her.

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