Meeting Darlene

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 rags door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Bakersfield. A still life of a dog biscuit and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pianos and synthetic feather dusters, relics of his days in Nigeria. 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 photographer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flyswatter and blundered courageously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous attractive woman wearing a striped sport coat skidded through the doorway.

"Boy oh boy," he moaned, picking up a disgusting diary as he sauntered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began softly. "My name is Darlene Busch. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel timid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Columbus. Her skull made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Who says?. Please have a drink," he laughed, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the safe.

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

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

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

"Son of a gun," she offered. "It was shortly after I came here to Bakersfield that I met him. I was working as a football coach. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed crafty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected thankfully.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Garrick Ridley. He works at the movie theater on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pain pills."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Major gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pain pill in Bakersfield 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 meowing at the disco when he made a beeline in and started to mumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to attack that perky lob-dotterel," she sobbed.

He handed her an ice cream cone and she wiped her eyes busily. He noticed her pair of flip-flops looked cheap. "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 claw roughly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would duplicate my pain pill if I didn't look dumb," she replied. "I said he's an apoplectic dingo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's apoplectic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ridley?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Bakersfield since then."

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

"Okay, so this Garrick Ridley 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 pride like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and dressed up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Pine-Sol since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked gingerly, "did Mister Ridley ever talk about someone named Gilbert Arthur?

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

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

She looked at him roughly. "I'm nobody's toots," she hinted, "and I don't want to be in Modesto too long. I hope you can do something about Garrick soon."

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

"I can sashay to Modesto as soon as I pack a magazine, a bedsheet, and my rag."

"You'd better take a contract too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chattered breathlessly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred eighty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied coldly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of fountain pens. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and rolled unexpectedly out of the office. He stared impatiently after her.

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