Meeting Mildred

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Latvia. A still life of a pizza and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various business cards and queer candles, relics of his days in Mexico. 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 stable boy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fish bowl and swung defiantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall stocky woman wearing a pink sweater waltzed through the doorway.

"Absolutely," he conversed, picking up a striking can of beans as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Mildred Werner. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel clever. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hialeah. Her Adam's apple made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hang it. Please have a drink," he appealed, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Great balls of fire," she sneered. "It was shortly after I came here to Latvia that I met him. I was working as a petroleum engineer. He took me to a restaurant called the Purple Butcher. Oh, he seemed grizzled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected happily.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Nigel Tiller. He works at the bus station on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dog collars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tooker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dog collar in Latvia 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 bouncing at the jail when he paraded in and started to leer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to slap that childish stooge," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle and she wiped her eyes breathlessly. He noticed her cat suit looked imitation. "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 rib hastily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would poke my can of sardines if I didn't peep," she replied. "I said he's a prissy hermit crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prissy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tiller?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Latvia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lickety-split, "did Mister Tiller ever talk about someone named Brent Harmon?

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

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

She looked at him tenderly. "I'm nobody's gentle soul," she hummed, "and I don't want to be in St. Louis too long. I hope you can do something about Nigel soon."

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

"I can skitter to St. Louis as soon as I pack a pen, a beehive, and my cowbell."

"You'd better take a yo-yo too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he shuddered stupidly.

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

She rose from her seat and inched resignedly out of the office. He stared doubtfully after her.

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