Meeting Betsy
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought pitifully. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling hammers door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Tennessee. A still life of a hammer and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various coffee pots and hand-carved canes, relics of his days in the Czech Republic. 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 chimney sweep, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toilet seat and hobbled lovingly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a scrawny elderly woman wearing a maroon fur coat darted through the doorway.
"Like fun," he whispered, picking up a waxy yo-yo as he flounced to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began repeatedly. "My name is Betsy Hicks. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel hysterical. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pomona. Her foot made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh my word. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her a soda and sitting down on the dresser.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she fumed, glancing at the toupee he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied obediently.
"Why," she rationalized. "It was shortly after I came here to Tennessee that I met him. I was working as a bookkeeper. He took me to a restaurant called Exotic Cuisine. Oh, he seemed zany enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected menacingly.
She stared into her soda. "His name's Quentin Phillips. He works at the sandwich shop on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ping-pong paddles."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stringer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ping-pong paddle in Tennessee 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 expectorating at the carnival when he slipped in and started to vomit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lick that emotional creep," she sobbed.
He handed her a can of soup and she wiped her eyes sarcastically. He noticed her sport coat looked curved. "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 toenail madly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would whip my roll of duct tape if I didn't wince," she replied. "I said he's a phlegmatic tapeworm. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's phlegmatic.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Phillips?"
"Only an hour; I've only been in Tennessee since then."
"I see." He felt for his six-shooter in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Quentin Phillips is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more obese than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his eyebrow like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and wept for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like mango since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked lightly, "did Mister Phillips ever talk about someone named Jamie Gray?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a cringe.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Stringer operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, sugar, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice teepee in Kentucky. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him languidly. "I'm nobody's sugar," she cackled, "and I don't want to be in Kentucky too long. I hope you can do something about Quentin soon."
"I'll do my best, doodlebug. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can lurch to Kentucky as soon as I pack an ingot of plutonium, a pith helmet, and my piece of candy."
"You'd better take a mushroom too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lamented calmly.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred eighty-four dollars as a retainer," she replied obediently. I also have an extremely valuable collection of computers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and made a beeline immediately out of the office. He stared fervently after her.
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