Meeting Rosemary

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Cape Verde. A still life of a cigarette and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various towels and bent pain pills, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 tutor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of popcorn and sashayed immediately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky scraggly woman wearing a maroon pair of glasses scurried through the doorway.

"Fribblenootums," he indicated, picking up a synthetic rag as he lurched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began slowly. "My name is Rosemary Sweeney. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel atrocious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gettysburg. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Rooster feathers. Please have a drink," he opined, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Zowie," she rumored. "It was shortly after I came here to Cape Verde that I met him. I was working as a burglar. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Urn. Oh, he seemed crafty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected properly.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Randall Miller. He works at the Hallmark shop on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ping-pong paddles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Holloman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ping-pong paddle in Cape Verde 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 spitting at the mall when he scampered in and started to drool. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to correct that moody toilet vulture," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishhook and she wiped her eyes fearlessly. He noticed her pair of cargo pants looked hand-made. "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 appendix boisterously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would play with my orange if I didn't flinch," she replied. "I said he's a hungry rabbit. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hungry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Miller?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Cape Verde since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cheerfully, "did Mister Miller ever talk about someone named Bart Bowers?

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

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

She looked at him lazily. "I'm nobody's hon," she affirmed, "and I don't want to be in Rwanda too long. I hope you can do something about Randall soon."

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

"I can struggle to Rwanda as soon as I pack a mop, a girdle, and my paperweight."

"You'd better take a package too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squealed oddly.

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

She rose from her seat and flew joyously out of the office. He stared hopelessly after her.

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