Meeting Constance

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Green Bay. A still life of a battery and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various whoopee cushions and curved rulers, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 kindergarten teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of beans and jogged shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied redheaded woman wearing a magenta beanie tore through the doorway.

"Wild," he hinted, picking up a bent piece of paper as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolefully. "My name is Constance Brainard. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conceited. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rapid City. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hah. Please have a drink," he yelled, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"Just a minute," she reasoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Green Bay that I met him. I was working as a composer. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Food Blitz. Oh, he seemed attractive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Lucky Fisher. He works at the art museum on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in playing cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hensley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a playing card in Green Bay 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 drooling at the mall when he bounced in and started to awaken. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to caress that tired dip," she sobbed.

He handed her a flashlight and she wiped her eyes kindly. He noticed her pair of galoshes looked fuzzy. "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 eye peevishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stack my spinning wheel if I didn't look puzzled," she replied. "I said he's a wary pheasant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wary.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fisher?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked resignedly, "did Mister Fisher ever talk about someone named Aaron Roman?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Hensley operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, baby-doll, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice motor home in Antarctica. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him jokingly. "I'm nobody's baby-doll," she screamed, "and I don't want to be in Antarctica too long. I hope you can do something about Lucky soon."

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

"I can slither to Antarctica as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a scarf, and my feather duster."

"You'd better take a fork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he giggled thankfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred seventy-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied admiringly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of batteries. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sped fervently out of the office. He stared rapidly after her.

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