Meeting Antoinette

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Peoria. A still life of a dead ant and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pipes and bronze buckets, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 beekeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diary and went viciously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short neat woman wearing a scarlet visor walked through the doorway.

"Holy smokeroo," he preached, picking up a wet piano as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began vacantly. "My name is Antoinette Domínguez. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel prissy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Diego. Her big toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Praise the Lord. Please have a drink," he offered, handing her a kamikaze and sitting down on the floor.

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

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

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

"Par bleu," she fantasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Peoria that I met him. I was working as a fireman. He took me to a restaurant called the Lucky Food Truck. Oh, he seemed hairy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected crankily.

She stared into her kamikaze. "His name's Patrick de Leon. He works at the electronics store on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tubes of toothpaste."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Knight gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tube of toothpaste in Peoria 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 bleeding at the tanning salon when he sauntered in and started to grin. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to soothe that ignoble simpleton," she sobbed.

He handed her a clothespin and she wiped her eyes blissfully. He noticed her garland looked art deco. "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 ear repeatedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clamp my etching if I didn't wake up," she replied. "I said he's an artistic orangutan. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's artistic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. De Leon?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quickly, "did Mister De Leon ever talk about someone named Kurt Kramer?

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

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

She looked at him ignobly. "I'm nobody's homie," she added, "and I don't want to be in Swaziland too long. I hope you can do something about Patrick soon."

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

"I can sprint to Swaziland as soon as I pack an accordion, a wig, and my accordion."

"You'd better take a daisy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chanted trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and jogged carelessly out of the office. He stared strictly after her.

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