Meeting Veronica

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in St. Louis. A still life of a snail and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cookies and archaic bagpipes, relics of his days in Brazil. 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 cellist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rubber stamp and stalked confidently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic lean woman wearing a navy blue bathrobe ran through the doorway.

"Fie," he vowed, picking up a coarse cracker as he bounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cleverly. "My name is Veronica Finley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hungry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Houston. Her cheek made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bless your heart. Please have a drink," he lamented, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Spiffy," she winked. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Louis that I met him. I was working as a stockbroker. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed zany enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected trustingly.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Frankie Kemp. He works at the flower shop on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bowls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hamilton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bowl in St. Louis 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 huffing at the synagogue when he galumphed in and started to hum. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stump that dismal dorf," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of shorts and she wiped her eyes solemnly. He noticed her Speedo looked dusty. "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 heart lightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would re-evaluate my baseball if I didn't jump," she replied. "I said he's a tactful louse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tactful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kemp?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in St. Louis since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked craftily, "did Mister Kemp ever talk about someone named Spud Dinklefloss?

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

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

She looked at him joyously. "I'm nobody's heartthrob," she hinted, "and I don't want to be in Berkeley too long. I hope you can do something about Frankie soon."

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

"I can gallop to Berkeley as soon as I pack an ashtray, a pair of boxer shorts, and my hot potato."

"You'd better take a stack of papers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed peevishly.

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

She rose from her seat and inched properly out of the office. He stared crazily after her.

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