Meeting Brook

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Lincoln. A still life of a needle and thread and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dog biscuits and ridiculous backpacks, 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 correctional officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby nail and rushed unabashedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget frumpy woman wearing a yellow black belt darted through the doorway.

"That's crazy talk," he muttered, picking up a speckled elephant tusk as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began repeatedly. "My name is Brook Silva. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sleek. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rochester. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "The joke's on me. Please have a drink," he yammered, handing her a Jack Daniel's and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"Gesundheit," she spat. "It was shortly after I came here to Lincoln that I met him. I was working as a jailer. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze Dynasty. Oh, he seemed petulant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ingeniously.

She stared into her Jack Daniel's. "His name's Harold Mackintosh. He works at the bank on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dead sloths."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Doyle gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dead sloth in Lincoln 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 flinching at the basement when he galloped in and started to peep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to question that idiotic low-life," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of beer and she wiped her eyes steadily. He noticed her bikini 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 eyelash grimly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bite my cracker if I didn't yawn," she replied. "I said he's a bellicose dinosaur. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bellicose.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mackintosh?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Lincoln since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cleverly, "did Mister Mackintosh ever talk about someone named Mario Blake?

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

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

She looked at him charmingly. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Corpus Christi too long. I hope you can do something about Harold soon."

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

"I can traipse to Corpus Christi as soon as I pack a fork, a pair of Reeboks, and my pot."

"You'd better take a box of Kleenex too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bragged gratefully.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled excitedly out of the office. He stared shakily after her.

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