Meeting Mildred

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Ohio. A still life of a potato and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tablet computers and musty key rings, relics of his days in Easter Island. 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 stamp collector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby screwdriver and sauntered excitedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky brown-eyed woman wearing a grey fedora struggled through the doorway.

"LOL," he expressed, picking up an unusual can of soup as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began zestily. "My name is Mildred Frankle. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel grizzled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Columbia. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Awesome. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a kamikaze and sitting down on the filing cabinet.

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

"This is difficult for me," she shrieked, glancing at the pair of boxing gloves he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Blah," she persisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Ohio that I met him. I was working as a gardener. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Tiger. Oh, he seemed menacing enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her kamikaze. "His name's Alton Quill. He works at the boutique on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in model airplanes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gore gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a model airplane in Ohio 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 groaning at the dance when he inched in and started to wait. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to slap that gregarious lob-dotterel," she sobbed.

He handed her a deck of cards and she wiped her eyes deftly. He noticed her big red rose looked ridiculous. "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 pinky tearfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stack my pacifier if I didn't look smart," she replied. "I said he's an enthusiastic camel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enthusiastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Quill?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked needlessly, "did Mister Quill ever talk about someone named Plato LaSalle?

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

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

She looked at him impatiently. "I'm nobody's pookie," she scoffed, "and I don't want to be in Chicago too long. I hope you can do something about Alton soon."

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

"I can whirl to Chicago as soon as I pack a salt shaker, a pair of Oxfords, and my toilet plunger."

"You'd better take a nail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he gasped shakily.

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

She rose from her seat and reeled suavely out of the office. He stared cheerfully after her.

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