Meeting Queenie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Des Moines. A still life of a chain and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various diagrams and hefty tickets, relics of his days in Myanmar. 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 prosecutor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hammer and sauntered glibly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal sorrowful woman wearing a polka dotted garland swaggered through the doorway.

"Boy oh boy," he appealed, picking up a musty water bottle as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began menacingly. "My name is Queenie Bartholomew. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel choleric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Overland Park. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yeehah. Please have a drink," he urged, handing her a Long Island iced tea and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Oh dear," she roared. "It was shortly after I came here to Des Moines that I met him. I was working as a street sweeper. He took me to a restaurant called In and Out Counter. Oh, he seemed vile enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grimly.

She stared into her Long Island iced tea. "His name's Wayne Cairns. He works at the burger joint on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in barbells."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Quintana gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a barbell in Des Moines 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 getting away at the miniature golf course when he capered in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to educate that witty vixen," she sobbed.

He handed her a blank check and she wiped her eyes positively. He noticed her pair of dentures looked used. "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 artery merrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would condemn my Van Gogh if I didn't snarl," she replied. "I said he's a quiet meerkat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's quiet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cairns?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cleverly, "did Mister Cairns ever talk about someone named Pinky Hogan?

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

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

She looked at him noisily. "I'm nobody's kitten," she clarified, "and I don't want to be in the Swiss Alps too long. I hope you can do something about Wayne soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to the Swiss Alps as soon as I pack a can of sardines, a suit, and my avocado."

"You'd better take a toilet plunger too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he panted doubtfully.

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

She rose from her seat and hopped fondly out of the office. He stared ingeniously after her.

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