Meeting Shelley

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Quebec. A still life of a dog collar and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various microphones and mechanical doilies, relics of his days in Uganda. 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 tailor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby peach and strode gracefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious albino woman wearing an orange 'I'm with Stupid' shirt stalked through the doorway.

"Son of a Baptist preacher," he hissed, picking up a crooked basket as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began daringly. "My name is Shelley Thor. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jaunty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tacoma. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alleluia. Please have a drink," he opined, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Shiver me timbers," she wailed. "It was shortly after I came here to Quebec that I met him. I was working as a dance instructor. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Food Factory. Oh, he seemed nonchalant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lickety-split.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Damon Maxwell. He works at the shoe shine booth on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dog biscuits."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jackson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dog biscuit in Quebec 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 freezing at the juice shop when he tiptoed in and started to dream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that serious blatherskite," she sobbed.

He handed her a biscuit and she wiped her eyes hysterically. He noticed her pair of tights looked damp. "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 pituitary gland unexpectedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kiss my box of candy if I didn't gesticulate," she replied. "I said he's a selfish antelope. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's selfish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Maxwell?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Quebec since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warmly, "did Mister Maxwell ever talk about someone named Zachary Wibbles?

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

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

She looked at him unabashedly. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she professed, "and I don't want to be in Micronesia too long. I hope you can do something about Damon soon."

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

"I can lope to Micronesia as soon as I pack a baseball bat, a suit, and my Hostess Ding Dong."

"You'd better take a paper bag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he gabbed shyly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred seventy-one dollars as a retainer," she replied fearlessly. 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 tiptoed pityingly out of the office. He stared again after her.

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