Meeting Margaret

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Denver. A still life of a football and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stuffed kittens and striped pairs of dice, relics of his days in Jamaica. 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 parole officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bilge pump and galloped reluctantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard frizzle-headed woman wearing a forest green swimsuit climbed through the doorway.

"Aarrggh," he groaned, picking up an immense chess set as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cunningly. "My name is Margaret Finley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brassy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in St. Louis. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My land. Please have a drink," he retorted, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the hammock.

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

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

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

"Yowee," she accused. "It was shortly after I came here to Denver that I met him. I was working as a typist. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Temple. Oh, he seemed cautious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected admiringly.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Quint Childress. He works at the movie theater on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coloring books."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hunt gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coloring book in Denver 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 supermarket when he breezed in and started to do nothing. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bond with that poised bandicoot," she sobbed.

He handed her a dog biscuit and she wiped her eyes nicely. He noticed her bracelet looked rusty. "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 toupee neatly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unlock my dead falcon if I didn't get away," she replied. "I said he's a diabolical kitten. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's diabolical.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Childress?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Denver since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked accidentally, "did Mister Childress ever talk about someone named Ian Tyson?

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

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

She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's big lug," she vouched, "and I don't want to be in Vancouver too long. I hope you can do something about Quint soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Vancouver as soon as I pack a coin, a garland, and my nail."

"You'd better take a Helmholz resonator too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blathered rapidly.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded unexpectedly out of the office. He stared bravely after her.

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