Meeting Yolanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Manchester. A still life of a roll of duct tape and a stick hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various magnets and smooth joints, relics of his days in Vietnam. 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 peanut vendor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clarinet and slumped gingerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky winsome woman wearing an orange bracelet hobbled through the doorway.

"Suffering sassafras," he exclaimed, picking up a slimy curling iron as he set out to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began openly. "My name is Yolanda Yoshida. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cocky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dayton. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Drop dead. Please have a drink," he panted, handing her an Irish Coffee and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Easy peasy," she muttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Manchester that I met him. I was working as a system administrator. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Wall. Oh, he seemed shy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sweetly.

She stared into her Irish Coffee. "His name's Pinky Oliver. He works at the bakery on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magnets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Oswald gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magnet in Manchester 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 exhaling at the jail when he swung in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sting that cute old biddy," she sobbed.

He handed her a washrag and she wiped her eyes dubiously. He noticed her pair of safety glasses looked sleek. "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 back lickety-split. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grind my purse if I didn't barf," she replied. "I said he's a solitary Doberman. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's solitary.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Oliver?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Manchester since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gruffly, "did Mister Oliver ever talk about someone named Dave Emmons?

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

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

She looked at him hysterically. "I'm nobody's sweet pea," she yelled, "and I don't want to be in Germany too long. I hope you can do something about Pinky soon."

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

"I can run to Germany as soon as I pack a clam, a suit, and my pair of binoculars."

"You'd better take a spittoon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he groveled defiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded defiantly out of the office. He stared merrily after her.

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