Meeting Shelly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Burbank. A still life of an ingot of plutonium and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various screwdrivers and stiff bottles of painkillers, 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 math teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bullet and dove hysterically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious neat woman wearing a sea green body shirt blundered through the doorway.

"Ha-ha," he complained, picking up a wooden dollhouse as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began diligently. "My name is Shelly Ali. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel resolute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Winston-Salem. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Scat. Please have a drink," he yelled, handing her a cup of hot chocolate and sitting down on the water bed.

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

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

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

"Shoo," she exploded. "It was shortly after I came here to Burbank that I met him. I was working as a dog catcher. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Clover. Oh, he seemed dumb enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daringly.

She stared into her cup of hot chocolate. "His name's Dillon Broghammer. He works at the bowling alley on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pom-poms."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schibbel gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pom-pom in Burbank 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 crying at the jail when he swaggered in and started to stand by. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to correct that menacing sucker," she sobbed.

He handed her a flower and she wiped her eyes nimbly. He noticed her pair of socks looked valuable. "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 abdomen valiantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would comprehend my jar of olives if I didn't run away," she replied. "I said he's a direct mosquito. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's direct.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Broghammer?"

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

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

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

He sounded more hungry than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his shin like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and stepped aside for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Pine-Sol since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked coolly, "did Mister Broghammer ever talk about someone named Hunter Romer?

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

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

She looked at him cunningly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in Niger too long. I hope you can do something about Dillon soon."

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

"I can caper to Niger as soon as I pack a snail, a Hawaiian shirt, and my paper clip."

"You'd better take a bucket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he announced clumsily.

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

She rose from her seat and marched surreptitiously out of the office. He stared grimly after her.

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