Meeting Violet

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in West Virginia. A still life of a teapot and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various stamps and electric hockey pucks, relics of his days in Argentina. 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 ballroom dancer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crate and leapt suavely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout homely woman wearing an orange hearing aid sprinted through the doorway.

"Bowwow," he rambled, picking up a woven dead bumblebee as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began daintily. "My name is Violet Goldwater. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel weird. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lexington. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fie. Please have a drink," he whispered, handing her a Scotch and soda and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Good gravy," she blubbered. "It was shortly after I came here to West Virginia that I met him. I was working as an FBI Agent. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed fashionable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wearily.

She stared into her Scotch and soda. "His name's Chuck Alden. He works at the grocery store on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pizzas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ackerman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pizza in West Virginia 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 itching at the basement when he bounced in and started to holler. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to annoy that arrogant poopyface," she sobbed.

He handed her an avocado and she wiped her eyes mysteriously. He noticed her cat suit looked ragged. "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 abdomen thankfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would choke my toy if I didn't stand by," she replied. "I said he's a prickly toad. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prickly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Alden?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Alden ever talk about someone named Noah Sinclair?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's home boy," she added, "and I don't want to be in Billings too long. I hope you can do something about Chuck soon."

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

"I can whirl to Billings as soon as I pack a spinning wheel, a straitjacket, and my orchid."

"You'd better take a smart phone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he begged suddenly.

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

She rose from her seat and swaggered grudgingly out of the office. He stared shakily after her.

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