Meeting Emily

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Washington DC. A still life of a Helmholz resonator and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various rubber stamps and small horseshoes, relics of his days in Kosovo. 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 messenger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby African violet and struggled rapidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive dark woman wearing a fuchsia gas mask cantered through the doorway.

"Cheers," he lamented, picking up a bent spinning wheel as he darted to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel thoughtful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Victoria. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "No way. Please have a drink," he groveled, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda," she comforted. "It was shortly after I came here to Washington DC that I met him. I was working as a marketing manager. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Lunchery. Oh, he seemed rapacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected roughly.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Cornelius Rajashree. He works at the McDonalds on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toilet plungers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barducci gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toilet plunger in Washington DC 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 squeaking at the closet when he strode in and started to bleed. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to massage that wicked vixen," she sobbed.

He handed her a button and she wiped her eyes timidly. He noticed her watch looked prickly. "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 kidney gracefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would sand my bottle if I didn't curtsey," she replied. "I said he's a refined spider. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's refined.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rajashree?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked shakily, "did Mister Rajashree ever talk about someone named Lee Madison?

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

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

She looked at him temperamentally. "I'm nobody's toodleums," she winked, "and I don't want to be in Cameroon too long. I hope you can do something about Cornelius soon."

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

"I can run to Cameroon as soon as I pack a fishing rod, a pair of cycling shorts, and my flyswatter."

"You'd better take a screwdriver too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blubbered lazily.

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

She rose from her seat and proceeded surreptitiously out of the office. He stared nonchalantly after her.

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