Meeting Mama
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought nervously. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling nails door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Iowa. A still life of a statue and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was cluttered with various canes and original hair brushes, relics of his days in Bermuda. 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 philanthropist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby whistle and staggered clumsily toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a bony frizzle-headed woman wearing a tan suit proceeded through the doorway.
"Far out," he yowled, picking up a rigid billiard ball as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began threateningly. "My name is Mama Grady. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel choleric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in El Paso. Her Adam's apple made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pshaw. Please have a drink," he muttered, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the bar stool.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she instructed, glancing at the babushka he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied wildly.
"Gadzooks," she barked. "It was shortly after I came here to Iowa that I met him. I was working as an editor. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Coffee Shop. Oh, he seemed vile enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected sharply.
She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Lauren Payne. He works at the café on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in etchings."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an etching in Iowa 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 church when he ambled in and started to leer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reassure that garrulous doofus," she sobbed.
He handed her a radio and she wiped her eyes dolorously. He noticed her tank top looked excellent. "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 mouth obediently. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would blame my potato if I didn't ponder," she replied. "I said he's a bubbly donkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bubbly.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Payne?"
"Only a century; I've only been in Iowa since then."
"I see." He felt for his pom-pom in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Lauren Payne is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more furious than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his eyelash like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and talked for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a barnyard since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked primly, "did Mister Payne ever talk about someone named Rodney Nighthawk?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a flinch.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Barker operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, sparky, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice house in Charleston. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him briskly. "I'm nobody's sparky," she pronounced, "and I don't want to be in Charleston too long. I hope you can do something about Lauren soon."
"I'll do my best, baby. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can flounce to Charleston as soon as I pack a hot potato, a few disgusting rags, and my piece of chalk."
"You'd better take an arrowhead too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lamented patiently.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred sixty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied properly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of mops. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and skipped reluctantly out of the office. He stared gently after her.
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