Meeting Bridget

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Norfolk. A still life of a dollar bill and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dog collars and magnificent packs of gum, relics of his days in South Africa. 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 short order cook, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hand puppet and galloped diligently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat roly-poly woman wearing a yellow pair of knickers dove through the doorway.

"Eh," he smirked, picking up a miniature shovel as he bolted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bitterly. "My name is Bridget Vernon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Jackson. Her waist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blecch. Please have a drink," he chortled, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Waa," she grieved. "It was shortly after I came here to Norfolk that I met him. I was working as a model. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze Bakery. Oh, he seemed precocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected positively.

She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Morton Butterfield. He works at the tobacco shop on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cactus plants."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bristol gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cactus plant in Norfolk 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 coming back at the restaurant when he slithered in and started to grumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to arrest that stubborn barbarian," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack and she wiped her eyes sleepily. He noticed her trench coat looked new. "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 finger timidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dislodge my telephone if I didn't hang around," she replied. "I said he's a rude rooster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rude.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Butterfield?"

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

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

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

He sounded more jolly 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 slept for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like maple syrup since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked strictly, "did Mister Butterfield ever talk about someone named Dave Talley?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's sweetheart," she blurted, "and I don't want to be in Burbank too long. I hope you can do something about Morton soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Burbank as soon as I pack a pencil, a pair of glasses, and my Big Gulp."

"You'd better take a Kindle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chimed dubiously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's sixty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied woefully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of iPads. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and dove tearfully out of the office. He stared ingeniously after her.

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