Meeting Melissa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Cincinnati. A still life of an apple and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hip flasks and damp paper towels, relics of his days in Nepal. 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 cardiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baritone saxophone and rushed oddly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat pallid woman wearing a beige bustier slipped through the doorway.

"Spiffy," he yelped, picking up a jagged shovel as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coolly. "My name is Melissa Dorn. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel contented. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rochester. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Abracadabra. Please have a drink," he roared, handing her a kamikaze and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Begad," she retorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Cincinnati that I met him. I was working as a parent. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Farmer. Oh, he seemed mindless enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected excitedly.

She stared into her kamikaze. "His name's Nicolas Sharpe. He works at the flower shop on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper bags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schmoe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper bag in Cincinnati 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 freaking out at the tanning salon when he tore in and started to collapse. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that spindly buzzard," she sobbed.

He handed her a teacup and she wiped her eyes arrogantly. He noticed her straitjacket looked original. "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 tongue gleefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smear my pizza if I didn't applaud," she replied. "I said he's a tall crocodile. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tall.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sharpe?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked suddenly, "did Mister Sharpe ever talk about someone named Nestor Bundy?

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

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

She looked at him cheerfully. "I'm nobody's cream puff," she scoffed, "and I don't want to be in Romania too long. I hope you can do something about Nicolas soon."

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

"I can breeze to Romania as soon as I pack a bilge pump, a belly button jewel, and my candy cane."

"You'd better take a gun too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed ferociously.

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

She rose from her seat and sprinted greedily out of the office. He stared automatically after her.

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