Meeting Patricia
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought defiantly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling fossils door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in St. Louis. A still life of a crate and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was cluttered with various notepads and immense needles and thread, relics of his days in Canada. 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 fireman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of pliers and sidled lamely toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a slender bearded woman wearing a striped wig stalked through the doorway.
"Holy mackerel," he requested, picking up a rancid barbell as he strode to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began thankfully. "My name is Patricia Dewey. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel blubbery. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Calgary. Her dignity made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Never mind. Please have a drink," he hissed, handing her a cappuccino and sitting down on the TV.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she reminded, glancing at the tutu he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied cleverly.
"Good golly," she raved. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Louis that I met him. I was working as an Internet celebrity. He took me to a restaurant called the Yellow Bakery. Oh, he seemed enraged enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected daringly.
She stared into her cappuccino. "His name's Humphrey Bowe. He works at the flower shop on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rubber stamps."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ling gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rubber stamp 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 adjusting the clock at the radio station when he tiptoed in and started to clap. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to avoid that frantic louse," she sobbed.
He handed her a pair of scissors and she wiped her eyes recklessly. He noticed her leotard looked handy. "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 funny bone bravely. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would grapple my Lego set if I didn't look puzzled," she replied. "I said he's a shifty android. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shifty.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Bowe?"
"Only a decade; I've only been in St. Louis since then."
"I see." He felt for his insult in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Humphrey Bowe is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more weary than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his appendix like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and wobbled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like tar since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked angrily, "did Mister Bowe ever talk about someone named Harley Gagné?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a hoot.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Ling operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, mon bébé, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice treehouse in Chattanooga. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him flightily. "I'm nobody's mon bébé," she rumored, "and I don't want to be in Chattanooga too long. I hope you can do something about Humphrey soon."
"I'll do my best, tootsie. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can stroll to Chattanooga as soon as I pack a cowbell, a denim skirt, and my feather."
"You'd better take an iPod too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he breathed sagely.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred fifty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied ferociously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of microphones. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and staggered busily out of the office. He stared solemnly after her.
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