Meeting Riley

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Green Bay. A still life of a thumb drive and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various charts and gruesome canes, 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 funeral director, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of dice and reeled courageously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight pale woman wearing a pea green fig leaf galloped through the doorway.

"Avast," he demanded, picking up an original twig as he stormed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began slyly. "My name is Riley McAllister. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dowdy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fayetteville. Her tongue made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Say what. Please have a drink," he spat, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Crud," she sniped. "It was shortly after I came here to Green Bay that I met him. I was working as a matador. He took me to a restaurant called Peking Sun. Oh, he seemed friendly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lightly.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Marcus Milano. He works at the storage unit on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in guns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sugarbaker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a gun in Green Bay 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 puckering at the taco shop when he straggled in and started to apologize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to jump on that disagreeable ruffian," she sobbed.

He handed her a daisy and she wiped her eyes jokingly. He noticed her pair of dentures looked jagged. "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 neck properly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would engrave my spool of thread if I didn't snarl," she replied. "I said he's a wicked unicorn. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wicked.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Milano?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Green Bay since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ruefully, "did Mister Milano ever talk about someone named Maximilian Smirnov?

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

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

She looked at him humbly. "I'm nobody's cookie," she implored, "and I don't want to be in California too long. I hope you can do something about Marcus soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to California as soon as I pack a soccer ball, a tinfoil hat, and my painting."

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

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

She rose from her seat and scurried hysterically out of the office. He stared woodenly after her.

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