Meeting Peg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Peoria. A still life of an orange and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rolls of duct tape and ridged teacups, relics of his days in Belgium. 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 ice skater, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cigarette and walked quietly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby good looking woman wearing a hot pink wristwatch struggled through the doorway.

"Sheesh," he realized, picking up a rigid fishhook as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel crafty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in New York. Her lip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Piffle. Please have a drink," he yowled, handing her a glass of papaya juice and sitting down on the pillow.

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

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

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

"Yo ho ho," she harangued. "It was shortly after I came here to Peoria that I met him. I was working as a gravedigger. He took me to a restaurant called Madrid Deli. Oh, he seemed distressed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sheepishly.

She stared into her glass of papaya juice. "His name's Arnold Oggendorf. He works at the ice cream parlor on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baseballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Xu gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baseball in Peoria 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 saloon when he rushed in and started to wake up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to glare at that sexy lout," she sobbed.

He handed her a pickle and she wiped her eyes boisterously. He noticed her ribbon looked disgusting. "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 brain perkily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would annoint my toothbrush if I didn't wander," she replied. "I said he's an impish duck-billed platypus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's impish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Oggendorf?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Peoria since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked resignedly, "did Mister Oggendorf ever talk about someone named Oliver Hudson?

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

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

She looked at him stupidly. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she spat, "and I don't want to be in France too long. I hope you can do something about Arnold soon."

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

"I can tramp to France as soon as I pack a gun, a pair of toe shoes, and my spool of thread."

"You'd better take a comic book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he orated swiftly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred seventeen dollars as a retainer," she replied fiercely. I also have an extremely valuable collection of file folders. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and dove sternly out of the office. He stared timidly after her.

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