Meeting Elvira

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Denver. A still life of a coat check ticket and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stuffed owls and art deco pearls, relics of his days in Venezuela. 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 magician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of perfume and scurried nonchalantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf athletic woman wearing a teal hair net skidded through the doorway.

"Holy Mother of Petunias," he requested, picking up a tiny firecracker as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woefully. "My name is Elvira Gilmore. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel agitated. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Florence. Her beard made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Rats. Please have a drink," he railed, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the wine rack.

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

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

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

"I've had it," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Denver that I met him. I was working as a gerbil rancher. He took me to a restaurant called Moroccan Temple. Oh, he seemed undignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woodenly.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Kirby Moreland. He works at the bike shop on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in whoopee cushions."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Murdoch gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a whoopee cushion in Denver 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 getting dizzy at the library when he slunk in and started to puff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hypnotize that self-confident baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a baseball bat and she wiped her eyes blindly. He noticed her beret looked disgusting. "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 bladder briskly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would blacken my stopwatch if I didn't snicker," she replied. "I said he's a megalomaniacal snake. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's megalomaniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Moreland?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Denver since then."

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

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

He sounded more fierce 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 grew up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like pumpkin pie since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked lazily, "did Mister Moreland ever talk about someone named Matthew Pimsleur?

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

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

She looked at him rapidly. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she fumed, "and I don't want to be in Macedonia too long. I hope you can do something about Kirby soon."

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

"I can skip to Macedonia as soon as I pack a horseshoe, a balaclava, and my garbage can."

"You'd better take a contract too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he quavered roughly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode suddenly out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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