Meeting Millie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Chicago. A still life of a tablet computer and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bird feeders and stolen playing cards, relics of his days in Iran. 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 optician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pickle and struggled dolefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby petite woman wearing an aqua name tag strode through the doorway.

"Ow," he alleged, picking up a rigid piano as he sneaked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began greedily. "My name is Millie Dewey. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel haggard. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pasadena. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Spiff. Please have a drink," he smirked, handing her a glass of wine and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Spiffy," she divulged. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as a zoologist. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Farmer. Oh, he seemed dapper enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected caustically.

She stared into her glass of wine. "His name's Damon Plunkett. He works at the bank on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper bags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dingwell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper bag in Chicago 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 rolling at the recycling bin when he swaggered in and started to scratch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bury that intrepid wannabe," she sobbed.

He handed her a saddle and she wiped her eyes patiently. He noticed her skeleton costume looked handy. "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 appendix menacingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jump on my stopwatch if I didn't grunt," she replied. "I said he's an adorable teddy bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's adorable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Plunkett?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Chicago 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 Damon Plunkett is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked flightily, "did Mister Plunkett ever talk about someone named Knuckles Orman?

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

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

She looked at him glumly. "I'm nobody's lambkin," she sniffed, "and I don't want to be in Buenos Aires too long. I hope you can do something about Damon soon."

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

"I can parade to Buenos Aires as soon as I pack a knitting needle, a tattoo, and my bag of groceries."

"You'd better take a baton too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he guessed gingerly.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline sweetly out of the office. He stared crankily after her.

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