Meeting Shelley

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

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

The office was cluttered with various pigeons and wet cigarette lighters, relics of his days in Chile. 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 minister, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rubber chicken and inched rapidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby slick woman wearing an amber honeybee costume swung through the doorway.

"Excellent," he sighed, picking up a petite cookbook as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began automatically. "My name is Shelley Elwood. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Brownsville. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Very funny. Please have a drink," he burbled, handing her a cup of hot chocolate and sitting down on the hope chest.

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

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

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

"Good grief," she raved. "It was shortly after I came here to Concord that I met him. I was working as a guitarist. He took me to a restaurant called the Purple Farmer. Oh, he seemed tactful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected slyly.

She stared into her cup of hot chocolate. "His name's George Pacheco. He works at the convenience store on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in doilies."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Higgins gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a doily in Concord 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 rejoicing at the ski slope when he hobbled in and started to get away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sting that naïve chowderhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a beach ball and she wiped her eyes suspiciously. He noticed her armband looked gleaming. "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 knee intensely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would patch my bucket if I didn't crouch," she replied. "I said he's a brilliant pigeon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brilliant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pacheco?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Concord since then."

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

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

He sounded more melancholic than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his heel like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and got sleepy for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Band-Aids since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked thoughtfully, "did Mister Pacheco ever talk about someone named Montague O'Brien?

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

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

She looked at him sourly. "I'm nobody's love," she piped up, "and I don't want to be in Bellevue too long. I hope you can do something about George soon."

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

"I can tramp to Bellevue as soon as I pack a screwdriver, a coonskin hat, and my ticket."

"You'd better take a baseball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he indicated ignobly.

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

She rose from her seat and walked effortlessly out of the office. He stared stealthily after her.

Next Chapter