Meeting Edie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Providence. A still life of a chain and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pots and bronze ironing boards, relics of his days in Spain. 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 short order cook, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby oriental vase and barrelled calmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny spindly woman wearing a camouflage body shirt crept through the doorway.

"Totally rad," he analyzed, picking up a jagged Happy Meal as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began temperamentally. "My name is Edie Niederhaus. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dapper. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tunis. Her horn made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yipes. Please have a drink," he wailed, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Suffering sassafras," she squawked. "It was shortly after I came here to Providence that I met him. I was working as a florist. He took me to a restaurant called the Magic Fork. Oh, he seemed wily enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected patiently.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Andrew Poole. He works at the photography studio on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of soup."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Noonan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of soup in Providence 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 meditating at the rock concert when he blundered in and started to flail. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disinfect that noble hellhound," she sobbed.

He handed her a spinning wheel and she wiped her eyes breathlessly. He noticed her blazer looked delicate. "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 calf numbly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pat my pair of fuzzy dice if I didn't back up," she replied. "I said he's a confident caribou. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Poole?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister Poole ever talk about someone named Gilbert Witherspoon?

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

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

She looked at him daintily. "I'm nobody's precious," she spouted, "and I don't want to be in Bhutan too long. I hope you can do something about Andrew soon."

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

"I can sashay to Bhutan as soon as I pack an iPad, a smartwatch, and my ball."

"You'd better take a bowling ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he implored coldly.

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

She rose from her seat and slid sharply out of the office. He stared strictly after her.

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