Meeting Callie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Springfield. A still life of a dictionary and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various coconuts and bulky coat hangers, relics of his days in Uganda. 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 Uber driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dollar bill and proceeded hungrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic winsome woman wearing a turquoise pair of glasses sped through the doorway.

"Blecch," he yammered, picking up an old cigar as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hopefully. "My name is Callie Cornish. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel portly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Virginia Beach. Her collarbone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alrighty. Please have a drink," he shuddered, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"Very well done," she snorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Springfield that I met him. I was working as a valet. He took me to a restaurant called Berlin Knife. Oh, he seemed absent-minded enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected rapidly.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Jared Freeman. He works at the pastry shop on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in staplers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Oggendorf gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stapler 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 coughing at the juice shop when he sped in and started to spit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disparage that carefree loon," she sobbed.

He handed her a pacifier and she wiped her eyes boisterously. He noticed her big red rose looked jade. "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 head resignedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hit my avocado if I didn't peep," she replied. "I said he's a pigeon-toed Norway rat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pigeon-toed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Freeman?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Springfield since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked patiently, "did Mister Freeman ever talk about someone named Arturo Snigglefritz?

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

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

She looked at him warmly. "I'm nobody's queenie," she affirmed, "and I don't want to be in Cincinnati too long. I hope you can do something about Jared soon."

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

"I can clamber to Cincinnati as soon as I pack a pair of dice, a set of camo fatigues, and my antenna."

"You'd better take a pillow too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he contended firmly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's ninety-one dollars as a retainer," she replied uselessly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pieces of chalk. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and galumphed glibly out of the office. He stared warmly after her.

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