Meeting Tiffany

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Buffalo. A still life of a grease gun and a rock hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various ping-pong paddles and mechanical tote bags, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 court reporter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby twig and strode excitedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty cute woman wearing an olive green robe traipsed through the doorway.

"Why not?," he blurted, picking up an ancient skull as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began excitedly. "My name is Tiffany Porterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel artistic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hollywood. Her earlobe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Unreal. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Holy frijole," she cackled. "It was shortly after I came here to Buffalo that I met him. I was working as a network administrator. He took me to a restaurant called the Blazing Butcher Block. Oh, he seemed brilliant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected trustingly.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Herbert Simpson. He works at the mortuary on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Hostess Ding Dongs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Quinlan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Hostess Ding Dong in Buffalo 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 cringing at the ski resort when he sailed in and started to shrivel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chase that slimy chump," she sobbed.

He handed her a key ring and she wiped her eyes humbly. He noticed her set of scrubs looked stolen. "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 artery peevishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would scuff my football if I didn't blank out," she replied. "I said he's an articulate cat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's articulate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simpson?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Buffalo since then."

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

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

He sounded more frantic than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thyroid gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and threw up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a barn since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked wildly, "did Mister Simpson ever talk about someone named Joel McGregor?

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

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

She looked at him wearily. "I'm nobody's dearest," she squealed, "and I don't want to be in Poland too long. I hope you can do something about Herbert soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Poland as soon as I pack a comb, a poncho, and my clarinet."

"You'd better take a piece of candy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yowled sheepishly.

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

She rose from her seat and swung madly out of the office. He stared vacantly after her.

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