Meeting Penelope

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Rhode Island. A still life of a nail and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cookbooks and coarse ice cream cones, relics of his days in Haiti. 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 civil engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby jar of olives and flounced humbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard cute woman wearing a forest green miniskirt tumbled through the doorway.

"Bingo," he blurted, picking up a spongy peach as he crawled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sagely. "My name is Penelope Glockman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obese. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Casablanca. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Tailfeathers. Please have a drink," he warbled, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Weird," she said. "It was shortly after I came here to Rhode Island that I met him. I was working as a cellist. He took me to a restaurant called the Lucky Dogs and Suds. Oh, he seemed modest enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected silently.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Lance Downey. He works at the brewery on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in biscuits."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zilch gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a biscuit in Rhode Island 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 basement when he sailed in and started to get away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bite that cocky bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a banana and she wiped her eyes wildly. He noticed her tarboosh 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 spine hopefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tweak my fork if I didn't get rigid," she replied. "I said he's a timid partridge. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's timid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Downey?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Rhode Island since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Downey ever talk about someone named Vilmer Rowling?

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

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

She looked at him curiously. "I'm nobody's buddy," she fumed, "and I don't want to be in Nepal too long. I hope you can do something about Lance soon."

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

"I can tear to Nepal as soon as I pack a camera, a negligee, and my pepper grinder."

"You'd better take a Kindle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he exploded oddly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty dollars as a retainer," she replied fondly. 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 ran merrily out of the office. He stared ignobly after her.

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