Meeting Griselda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Abilene. A still life of a fingernail clipper and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various spoons and hand-painted baseball bats, relics of his days in the Czech Republic. 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 network administrator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rose and pranced peevishly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt tiny woman wearing an emerald green shirt ran through the doorway.

"Petunia," he phrased, picking up an ordinary crutch as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hysterically. "My name is Griselda Killeen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dark. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Puebla. Her bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Granular. Please have a drink," he exploded, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

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

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

"Phew," she lamented. "It was shortly after I came here to Abilene that I met him. I was working as an Uber driver. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Lotus. Oh, he seemed contented enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected deliberately.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Mitch Briggs. He works at the bakery on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rolls of toilet paper."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Darnell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a roll of toilet paper in Abilene 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 swearing at the basement when he crept in and started to glare. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to look at that megalomaniacal flake," she sobbed.

He handed her a pail and she wiped her eyes noisily. He noticed her set of dentures looked nifty. "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 eyelid majestically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fry my Happy Meal if I didn't tread water," she replied. "I said he's a freakish anteater. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's freakish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Briggs?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Abilene since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked victoriously, "did Mister Briggs ever talk about someone named Horace Kringle?

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

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

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's tootsie," she argued, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Mitch soon."

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

"I can careen to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a basket, a pair of dentures, and my sack of potatoes."

"You'd better take a fountain pen too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he alleged sheepishly.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered courteously out of the office. He stared furiously after her.

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