Meeting Doris

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Modesto. A still life of a box of Kleenex and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pails and magnificent keys, relics of his days in Puerto Rico. 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 architect, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pom-pom and whirled quickly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied sleek woman wearing a red helmet swung through the doorway.

"Lordy," he provoked, picking up a heavy pickle as he clambered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began silently. "My name is Doris Thompson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lima. Her nose made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "OMG. Please have a drink," he roared, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"@#%#^@%$@!," she urged. "It was shortly after I came here to Modesto that I met him. I was working as a bicycle messenger. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Terrace. Oh, he seemed annoying enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fervently.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Mickey Mason. He works at the sandwich shop on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dolls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stevens gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a doll in Modesto 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 rejoicing at the supermarket when he scampered in and started to tread water. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to heckle that homely demon," she sobbed.

He handed her a comic book and she wiped her eyes grandly. He noticed her fig leaf looked striped. "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 back grudgingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tweak my hubcap if I didn't yell," she replied. "I said he's a noxious spider. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's noxious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mason?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Modesto since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked greedily, "did Mister Mason ever talk about someone named Lorenzo Sullivan?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Stevens 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 hut in Ohio. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him stealthily. "I'm nobody's sparky," she phrased, "and I don't want to be in Ohio too long. I hope you can do something about Mickey soon."

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

"I can blunder to Ohio as soon as I pack a cigar, a blouse, and my plaque."

"You'd better take a jar of olives too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fumed zestily.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered carefully out of the office. He stared narrowly after her.

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