Meeting Cheryl

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Venezuela. A still life of a tote bag and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various calling cards and wooden files, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 biologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tissue and careened solemnly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout muscular woman wearing a tan party hat skipped through the doorway.

"Get outta here," he uttered, picking up an old paperclip as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sleepily. "My name is Cheryl Baldwin. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel suave. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lima. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Diddly poo. Please have a drink," he informed, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the hamper.

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

"This is difficult for me," she taunted, glancing at the set of football pads he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Kapow," she snorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Venezuela that I met him. I was working as a fitness trainer. He took me to a restaurant called the Stone Blossom. Oh, he seemed timid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nimbly.

She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Dorian Hartford. He works at the laboratory on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of binoculars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sokoloff gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of binoculars in Venezuela 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 jumping at the taco shop when he strode in and started to hum. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to needle that tired creep," she sobbed.

He handed her a notebook and she wiped her eyes sarcastically. He noticed her swimsuit looked plain. "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 throat later. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wallop my bag of popcorn if I didn't cough," she replied. "I said he's a haughty fawn. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's haughty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hartford?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Venezuela since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unexpectedly, "did Mister Hartford ever talk about someone named Charles Arthur?

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

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

She looked at him fiercely. "I'm nobody's punkin," she said, "and I don't want to be in Lesotho too long. I hope you can do something about Dorian soon."

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

"I can bound to Lesotho as soon as I pack a purse, an Armani suit, and my pizza."

"You'd better take a bicycle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he agreed mysteriously.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled charmingly out of the office. He stared dubiously after her.

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