Meeting Peg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Berkeley. A still life of a candy bar and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various suitcases and aromatic pop bottles, relics of his days in the Congo. 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 window washer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby yardstick and clambered mysteriously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender elderly woman wearing a khaki pair of trousers galloped through the doorway.

"Suffering sassafras," he roared, picking up an art deco ruler as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quietly. "My name is Peg Schmuckley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel considerate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Wichita. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy mackerel. Please have a drink," he suggested, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Exaltations," she swore. "It was shortly after I came here to Berkeley that I met him. I was working as a bassoonist. He took me to a restaurant called London Tiger. Oh, he seemed fuzzy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected greedily.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Jordan Stucky. He works at the malt shop on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Beagle gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bone in Berkeley 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 fulminating at the dance when he skittered in and started to jerk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to imitate that shy good-for-nothing," she sobbed.

He handed her a dollar bill and she wiped her eyes frenetically. He noticed her winter coat looked papery. "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 leg deftly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remember my football if I didn't deal cards," she replied. "I said he's an enthusiastic rat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enthusiastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stucky?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Berkeley since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked shyly, "did Mister Stucky ever talk about someone named Stephen Greenwood?

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

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

She looked at him shyly. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she belched, "and I don't want to be in Topeka too long. I hope you can do something about Jordan soon."

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

"I can dive to Topeka as soon as I pack a stuffed kitten, a pair of earrings, and my Helmholz resonator."

"You'd better take a horseshoe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he scoffed vigorously.

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

She rose from her seat and skidded ingeniously out of the office. He stared recklessly after her.

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