Meeting Ophelia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Senegal. A still life of a magazine and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various comic books and disgusting smart phones, relics of his days in Peru. 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 student, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby smart phone and lumbered reluctantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky athletic woman wearing an aqua pair of false eyelashes jogged through the doorway.

"Ouch," he boasted, picking up a smelly package as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began diligently. "My name is Ophelia Bean. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel powerful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gettysburg. Her piehole made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shiver me timbers. Please have a drink," he said, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Buzzards," she emphasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Senegal that I met him. I was working as a historian. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Empire. Oh, he seemed cruel enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coolly.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Harley Hopper. He works at the train depot on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cotton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coin in Senegal 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 meowing at the jail when he sallied forth in and started to party. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ostracize that dowdy laggard," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of knitting needles and she wiped her eyes threateningly. He noticed her gas mask looked used. "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 spinal cord threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would throw my deck of cards if I didn't fantasize," she replied. "I said he's a gentle rhinoceros. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gentle.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hopper?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Senegal since then."

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

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

He sounded more direct than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his toe like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and played Farmer in the Dell for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like spearmint since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked daringly, "did Mister Hopper ever talk about someone named Biff Tannenbaum?

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

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

She looked at him despondently. "I'm nobody's sugar," she crooned, "and I don't want to be in France too long. I hope you can do something about Harley soon."

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

"I can run to France as soon as I pack a contract, a pair of boxing gloves, and my Van Gogh."

"You'd better take a pumpkin too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he disputed pityingly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred sixteen dollars as a retainer," she replied pityingly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of chess sets. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and strolled gingerly out of the office. He stared slowly after her.

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