Meeting Cinderella

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought gracefully. 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 sixth floor of an aging building in Vermont. A still life of a cowbell and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various decks of cards and bronze pink flamingoes, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 physical therapist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby primrose and sped menacingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy blue-eyed woman wearing a crimson beard trotted through the doorway.

"Petunia," he growled, picking up a papery hammer as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began firmly. "My name is Cinderella Palensky. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel vivacious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Laramie. Her antenna made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Feh. Please have a drink," he voiced, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the floor.

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

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

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

"Zounds," she clarified. "It was shortly after I came here to Vermont that I met him. I was working as a cook. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Bistro. Oh, he seemed wily enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected later.

She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's DeWitt Cotton. He works at the McDonalds on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in iPhones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fosbury gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an iPhone in Vermont 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 wiggling at the day care center when he swung in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kiss that frightened doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle of perfume and she wiped her eyes crazily. He noticed her trench coat looked art deco. "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 head brightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would leave my bottle of perfume if I didn't dance," she replied. "I said he's a stylish sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stylish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cotton?"

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

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

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

He sounded more heavyset than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his nose like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and played Farmer in the Dell for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like cigars since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked energetically, "did Mister Cotton ever talk about someone named Dan Corialis?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Fosbury operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, cutie-patootie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice housing project in Green Bay. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's cutie-patootie," she jeered, "and I don't want to be in Green Bay too long. I hope you can do something about DeWitt soon."

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

"I can galumph to Green Bay as soon as I pack a cookbook, a bomber jacket, and my napkin."

"You'd better take a peach too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he winked furiously.

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

She rose from her seat and leapt later out of the office. He stared admiringly after her.

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