Meeting Rosemary

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought swiftly. 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 ninth floor of an aging building in El Paso. A still life of a dart gun and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various plaques and salmon saddles, relics of his days in Iran. 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 psychic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pop bottle and straggled joyously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous grubby woman wearing a mauve burqa reeled through the doorway.

"Freaky," he fumed, picking up a well worn toilet plunger as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began doubtfully. "My name is Rosemary Findley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dreadful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Amarillo. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Big deal. Please have a drink," he grunted, handing her a soda and sitting down on the water bed.

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

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

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

"Spiff," she sniveled. "It was shortly after I came here to El Paso that I met him. I was working as a painter. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Mountain. Oh, he seemed distressed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected admiringly.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Lorenzo Strait. He works at the bowling alley on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stethoscopes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Klein gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stethoscope in El Paso 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 adjusting at the health club when he sprinted in and started to cogitate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lie to that obese punk," she sobbed.

He handed her a photograph and she wiped her eyes confidently. He noticed her hoop skirt looked puzzling. "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 chin strictly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would silence my nail if I didn't hiccup," she replied. "I said he's an idiotic moose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's idiotic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Strait?"

"Only a year; I've only been in El Paso since then."

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

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

He sounded more clever 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 bounced for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fried chicken since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked firmly, "did Mister Strait ever talk about someone named Shawn Strait?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Klein operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, little chickadee, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Victorian mansion in Kalamazoo. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him boldly. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she smiled, "and I don't want to be in Kalamazoo too long. I hope you can do something about Lorenzo soon."

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

"I can skitter to Kalamazoo as soon as I pack a trash can, a beanie, and my fountain pen."

"You'd better take a cookbook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he babbled crazily.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled daringly out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.

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