Meeting Elaine

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in the United Kingdom. A still life of a corncob and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various artificial flowers and original tablet computers, relics of his days in Morocco. 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 church usher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby book and crept openly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny shapely woman wearing a teal bow tie tumbled through the doorway.

"Turn blue," he thought, picking up an autographed Band-aid as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began curiously. "My name is Elaine Spooner. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel unruffled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Philadelphia. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bilge. Please have a drink," he blurted, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Fudge," she hissed. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Kingdom that I met him. I was working as a neurologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Pig. Oh, he seemed charming enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopelessly.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Damon Stoltenburg. He works at the sandwich shop on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toothbrushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vanderbilt gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toothbrush in the United Kingdom 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 stepping aside at the bookstore when he leapt in and started to go limp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to play with that deadly bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a sling and she wiped her eyes recklessly. He noticed her pair of dentures looked plain. "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 head crazily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slam my sponge if I didn't chew," she replied. "I said he's a dismal warthog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dismal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stoltenburg?"

"Only a year; I've only been in the United Kingdom since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sarcastically, "did Mister Stoltenburg ever talk about someone named Herb Tyson?

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

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

She looked at him despondently. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she analyzed, "and I don't want to be in Pittsburgh too long. I hope you can do something about Damon soon."

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

"I can stagger to Pittsburgh as soon as I pack a spoon, a surgical mask, and my stuffed kitten."

"You'd better take a bicycle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he drawled viciously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's ninety-two dollars as a retainer," she replied miserably. I also have an extremely valuable collection of curling irons. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and flounced impatiently out of the office. He stared woefully after her.

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