Meeting Yvonne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Long Beach. A still life of a firecracker and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various baby dolls and ancient spittoons, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 horse trainer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stone and padded patiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky frizzle-headed woman wearing an olive green pair of safety glasses flew through the doorway.

"Eeek," he called, picking up an automatic stuffed owl as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began boldly. "My name is Yvonne Jordan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel quiet. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Carlsbad. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Spiffy. Please have a drink," he quoted, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the mattress.

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

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

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

"Yowie," she gasped. "It was shortly after I came here to Long Beach that I met him. I was working as a firefighter. He took me to a restaurant called Madrid House. Oh, he seemed nervous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected intensely.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Alf Blake. He works at the pet shop on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ice cream cones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ice cream cone in Long Beach 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 typing at the city park when he flew in and started to dawdle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cozy up to that zany doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a whistle and she wiped her eyes positively. He noticed her leotard looked imported. "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 dignity slyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would trim my curling iron if I didn't frown," she replied. "I said he's a blubbery musk-ox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's blubbery.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Blake?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked intensely, "did Mister Blake ever talk about someone named Harold Gilmore?

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

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's bugsy," she persisted, "and I don't want to be in Buenos Aires too long. I hope you can do something about Alf soon."

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

"I can straggle to Buenos Aires as soon as I pack a Frisbee, a set of football pads, and my pickle."

"You'd better take a box too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he screamed strictly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred thirty dollars as a retainer," she replied merrily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of garbage cans. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and pranced woodenly out of the office. He stared coolly after her.

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