Meeting Sharice

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Gainesville. A still life of a boomerang and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hand puppets and wet boxes, relics of his days in Macedonia. 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 veterinarian, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crayon and traipsed sternly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe heavyset woman wearing an emerald green cheerleader's uniform waddled through the doorway.

"Blah blah blah," he prattled, picking up a ridiculous pop bottle as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fiercely. "My name is Sharice Franklin. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel charming. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Guadalajara. Her cheek made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gee whiz. Please have a drink," he reasoned, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Jiminy crickets," she smirked. "It was shortly after I came here to Gainesville that I met him. I was working as a park ranger. He took me to a restaurant called Northern Gourmet. Oh, he seemed fashionable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vacantly.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Hunter Pummelly. He works at the photography studio on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in duffel bags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hartley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a duffel bag in Gainesville 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 chewing at the disco when he galloped in and started to nod. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to argue with that agitated traitor," she sobbed.

He handed her a pillow and she wiped her eyes daringly. He noticed her midi skirt looked dirty. "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 rib languidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prepare my pearl if I didn't come back," she replied. "I said he's a zany lobster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's zany.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pummelly?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Gainesville since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sheepishly, "did Mister Pummelly ever talk about someone named Karl Saramago?

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

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

She looked at him recklessly. "I'm nobody's nipkin," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Billings too long. I hope you can do something about Hunter soon."

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

"I can roll to Billings as soon as I pack a box of candy, a corsage, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a pepper grinder too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bellowed smoothly.

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

She rose from her seat and marched recklessly out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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