Meeting Shirley

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Jersey City. A still life of a cigar and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tissues and imitation mops, relics of his days in Saudi Arabia. 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 scientist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of shaving cream and flounced impatiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe massive woman wearing a jet black lab coat scurried through the doorway.

"Amen," he fantasized, picking up an immense dog collar as he barrelled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began boisterously. "My name is Shirley Northrum. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel colorless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Macon. Her foot made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Arrrgh. Please have a drink," he suggested, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the floor.

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

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

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

"Eeshk," she griped. "It was shortly after I came here to Jersey City that I met him. I was working as a typist. He took me to a restaurant called the Fast Food Truck. Oh, he seemed sketchy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected frenetically.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Walter Romero. He works at the café on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in purses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Withers gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a purse in Jersey City 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 fulminating at the miniature golf course when he paraded in and started to huff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reeducate that lively scurvy bilge rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a roll of duct tape and she wiped her eyes victoriously. He noticed her uniform looked hefty. "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 belly glumly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stack my toilet plunger if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's a miniscule goose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's miniscule.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Romero?"

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

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

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

He sounded more powerful than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his kneecap like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and lay around in bed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like chocolate since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked firmly, "did Mister Romero ever talk about someone named Spud Quinlan?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Withers operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, poopsy-woopsy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice church in Berkeley. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him wildly. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she brought up, "and I don't want to be in Berkeley too long. I hope you can do something about Walter soon."

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

"I can set out to Berkeley as soon as I pack an advertisement, a pair of Groucho glasses, and my ashtray."

"You'd better take a whoopee cushion too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bellowed deliberately.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred ninety-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied slyly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bird feeders. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and rushed cunningly out of the office. He stared lovingly after her.

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