Meeting Blanca

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in California. A still life of a bagpipe and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pom-poms and excellent crayons, relics of his days in Nicaragua. 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 computer programmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby box of Kleenex and danced unabashedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky plump woman wearing a tan towel scooted through the doorway.

"Harrumph," he breathed, picking up a bent dollar bill as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began joyously. "My name is Blanca Chesney. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel emotional. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pomona. Her buttocks made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Like, totally. Please have a drink," he whined, handing her a milkshake and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Yowee," she harangued. "It was shortly after I came here to California that I met him. I was working as a bellhop. He took me to a restaurant called the Fragrant Lounge. Oh, he seemed jolly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected narrowly.

She stared into her milkshake. "His name's Boots Tuttle. He works at the bakery on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in contracts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Whiteside gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a contract in California 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 solitaire at the Seven-Eleven when he scampered in and started to shiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reject that moody drip," she sobbed.

He handed her a hammer and she wiped her eyes effortlessly. He noticed her pair of shin guards looked synthetic. "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 chest briskly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wipe my cookie if I didn't jerk," she replied. "I said he's a charming sloth. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's charming.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tuttle?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in California since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warily, "did Mister Tuttle ever talk about someone named Garrett Potts?

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

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

She looked at him vigorously. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she revealed, "and I don't want to be in London too long. I hope you can do something about Boots soon."

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

"I can straggle to London as soon as I pack a can of beer, a pair of heels, and my fish."

"You'd better take a hammer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chuckled briskly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred seventy-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied recklessly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pencil sharpeners. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and tiptoed coolly out of the office. He stared dolefully after her.

Next Chapter