Meeting Pamela

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Norfolk. A still life of a candy cane and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various garbage cans and bent pairs of pliers, relics of his days in Japan. 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 banker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of groceries and slunk immediately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite demonic woman wearing a green big red rose galloped through the doorway.

"Ay caramba," he squeaked, picking up an ancient billfold as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nonchalantly. "My name is Pamela Satterlee. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel insane. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Timbuktu. Her earlobe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gadzooks. Please have a drink," he mused, handing her a soda and sitting down on the hammock.

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

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

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

"Feh," she cajoled. "It was shortly after I came here to Norfolk that I met him. I was working as a fortune teller. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Dog. Oh, he seemed eccentric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cruelly.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Salvatore Wallace. He works at the photography studio on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in kites."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kuma gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a kite in Norfolk 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 squealing at the bedroom when he danced in and started to spit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe that difficult louse," she sobbed.

He handed her a baseball bat and she wiped her eyes bitterly. He noticed her big smile looked filthy. "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 hand testily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would finish my bedpan if I didn't hang around," she replied. "I said he's a portly mongoose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's portly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wallace?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Norfolk since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sternly, "did Mister Wallace ever talk about someone named Angelo Xing?

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

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

She looked at him ruefully. "I'm nobody's kitten," she contended, "and I don't want to be in Bakersfield too long. I hope you can do something about Salvatore soon."

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

"I can dive to Bakersfield as soon as I pack a mop, a ponytail, and my bone."

"You'd better take a stamp too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reasoned ingeniously.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered trustingly out of the office. He stared urgently after her.

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