Meeting Eleanor

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Indiana. A still life of a plaque and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Hostess Ding Dongs and jade whoopee cushions, relics of his days in Greece. 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 matador, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby potato and breezed haughtily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite bald woman wearing a mauve pair of booties strolled through the doorway.

"Totally rad," he cried, picking up a miniature knitting needle as he trotted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began warmly. "My name is Eleanor Bransen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bouncy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chula Vista. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Outstanding. Please have a drink," he proposed, handing her a glass of tomato juice and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Holy smokes," she complained. "It was shortly after I came here to Indiana that I met him. I was working as a meteorologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Beautiful Wingding. Oh, he seemed weary enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sorrowfully.

She stared into her glass of tomato juice. "His name's Abraham Owen. He works at the travel agency on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in forks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Frankle gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fork in Indiana 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 daydreaming at the senior citizens center when he sailed in and started to get upset. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to appease that taciturn moron," she sobbed.

He handed her a comic book and she wiped her eyes brashly. He noticed her pair of Groucho glasses looked hand-made. "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 brain wearily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would sand my baseball bat if I didn't chatter," she replied. "I said he's a passionate otter. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's passionate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Owen?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Indiana since then."

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

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

He sounded more disgusting 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 giggled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like moldy leftovers since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked fearlessly, "did Mister Owen ever talk about someone named Romeo Witherspoon?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Frankle operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, poopsy-woopsy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Victorian mansion in the Philippines. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him roughly. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she belched, "and I don't want to be in the Philippines too long. I hope you can do something about Abraham soon."

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

"I can dive to the Philippines as soon as I pack a fishhook, a mask, and my cream puff."

"You'd better take a floppy disk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he snorted carefully.

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

She rose from her seat and dove dubiously out of the office. He stared perkily after her.

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