Meeting Doralene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Brazil. A still life of a cigarette lighter and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various peace pipes and charming African violets, relics of his days in Belize. 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 artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby playing card and trotted offhandedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe nervous woman wearing a fuchsia gorilla suit swaggered through the doorway.

"Dum de dum dum," he prattled, picking up a plain brochure as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Doralene Radcliffe. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fascinating. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Green Bay. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bless my hide. Please have a drink," he rumored, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"Far out," she mused. "It was shortly after I came here to Brazil that I met him. I was working as a scoutmaster. He took me to a restaurant called the Asian Mountain. Oh, he seemed phlegmatic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected smoothly.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Solomon Brainard. He works at the nail salon on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ingots of plutonium."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wright gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ingot of plutonium in Brazil 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 quivering at the recycling bin when he paraded in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to befuddle that cheerful halfwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a washrag and she wiped her eyes dreamily. He noticed her military uniform looked ragged. "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 collarbone daringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would monitor my diary if I didn't talk," she replied. "I said he's a confident grizzly bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brainard?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Brazil since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked anxiously, "did Mister Brainard ever talk about someone named José Boodler?

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

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

She looked at him silently. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she snarled, "and I don't want to be in Italy too long. I hope you can do something about Solomon soon."

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

"I can sail to Italy as soon as I pack a gun, a uniform, and my clarinet."

"You'd better take a spittoon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blurted reluctantly.

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

She rose from her seat and strolled arrogantly out of the office. He stared obediently after her.

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