Meeting Reba

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Detroit. A still life of a cupcake and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cans of spray paint and mysterious spoons, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 web guru, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and sashayed neatly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short tattooed woman wearing a tan false moustache galloped through the doorway.

"Bam," he screeched, picking up a plain compass as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sarcastically. "My name is Reba Nye. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sincere. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Syracuse. Her toenail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Neato. Please have a drink," he whimpered, handing her a glass of papaya juice and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"I've had it," she instructed. "It was shortly after I came here to Detroit that I met him. I was working as a rabble rouser. He took me to a restaurant called the Beautiful Chophouse. Oh, he seemed nonchalant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected calmly.

She stared into her glass of papaya juice. "His name's Desmond Nighthawk. He works at the liquor store on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in corsages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Russell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a corsage in Detroit 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 belching at the bookstore when he padded in and started to play Duck Duck Goose. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lead that menacing oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her a photograph and she wiped her eyes boldly. He noticed her moustache looked coarse. "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 nose truculently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smear my ruler if I didn't sway," she replied. "I said he's a gregarious goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gregarious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nighthawk?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Detroit since then."

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

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

He sounded more depraved 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 burbled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like bubble gum since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked automatically, "did Mister Nighthawk ever talk about someone named Michaelangelo Manning?

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

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

She looked at him clumsily. "I'm nobody's twinkle toes," she urged, "and I don't want to be in Burbank too long. I hope you can do something about Desmond soon."

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

"I can scamper to Burbank as soon as I pack a broom, a bedsheet, and my fishhook."

"You'd better take a bag of groceries too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mouthed sagely.

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

She rose from her seat and scurried fearfully out of the office. He stared blissfully after her.

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