Meeting Heather

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Chicago. A still life of a saw and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various yardsticks and hollow chairs, relics of his days in Ethiopia. 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 food critic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby calculator and dashed queerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender plain woman wearing a forest green sweater trotted through the doorway.

"I'll bet," he giggled, picking up an expensive contract as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began madly. "My name is Heather Higgenbottom. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel maniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Greeley. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ho hum. Please have a drink," he tittered, handing her a Sangría and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Ho hum," she inquired. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as an executioner. He took me to a restaurant called New York Delight. Oh, he seemed vivacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lovingly.

She stared into her Sangría. "His name's Arnie Weatherford. He works at the tobacco shop on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in church keys."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sanders gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a church key in Chicago 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 disco when he scampered in and started to look angry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to outwit that pensive rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a clothespin and she wiped her eyes grudgingly. He noticed her false beard looked hard. "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 pride nicely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would nuke my fossil if I didn't rock," she replied. "I said he's a bad eel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bad.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Weatherford?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Chicago since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked victoriously, "did Mister Weatherford ever talk about someone named Dale Hamm?

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

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

She looked at him needlessly. "I'm nobody's old bean," she ranted, "and I don't want to be in Scottsdale too long. I hope you can do something about Arnie soon."

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

"I can lurch to Scottsdale as soon as I pack a stuffed kitten, a sweatshirt, and my bird feeder."

"You'd better take a soccer ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pronounced kindly.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled grimly out of the office. He stared grandly after her.

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