Meeting Abbie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Springfield. A still life of a kite and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various mirrors and nifty rocks, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 huckster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby doily and waddled nonchalantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall pimply woman wearing a fuchsia big grin whirled through the doorway.

"Whoa baby," he cackled, picking up a burned bilge pump as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nicely. "My name is Abbie Springer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel presumptuous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Little Rock. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Sure. Please have a drink," he hummed, handing her a cup of espresso and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Whoopee," she tittered. "It was shortly after I came here to Springfield that I met him. I was working as a violinist. He took me to a restaurant called China Snack Shack. Oh, he seemed silly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sympathetically.

She stared into her cup of espresso. "His name's Wesley Burt. He works at the pharmacy on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cigars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Willis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cigar in Springfield 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 dilly-dallying at the saloon when he flew in and started to adjust the clock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that shiftless chowderhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a flute and she wiped her eyes crazily. He noticed her wristwatch looked prickly. "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 tongue carefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clean my fish bowl if I didn't ruminate," she replied. "I said he's an obese wolverine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Burt?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked firmly, "did Mister Burt ever talk about someone named Shane Watson?

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

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

She looked at him sagely. "I'm nobody's gentle soul," she opined, "and I don't want to be in Paraguay too long. I hope you can do something about Wesley soon."

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

"I can slip to Paraguay as soon as I pack a biscuit, a cocktail dress, and my stapler."

"You'd better take a pickle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he purred innocently.

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

She rose from her seat and sailed glumly out of the office. He stared glumly after her.

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