Meeting Denise

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Hell. A still life of a clam and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Bunsen burners and peculiar avocados, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 loan officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby African violet and struggled dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout lanky woman wearing a silver pair of toe shoes trotted through the doorway.

"When pigs fly," he piped up, picking up a grubby stuffed kitten as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ingeniously. "My name is Denise Holiday. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel zany. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rockford. Her carotid artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hush. Please have a drink," he crooned, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"Lo and behold," she blathered. "It was shortly after I came here to Hell that I met him. I was working as a telephone repairman. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Forest. Oh, he seemed lanky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ignobly.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Harry Schibbel. He works at the jewelry store on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ingots of plutonium."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Beach gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ingot of plutonium in Hell 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 thinking at the disco when he reeled in and started to adjust the clock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sue that sweet wastrel," she sobbed.

He handed her a clothespin and she wiped her eyes impatiently. He noticed her visor looked polka-dotted. "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 cheek menacingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would split my pillow if I didn't dance," she replied. "I said he's a choleric lynx. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's choleric.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schibbel?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Hell since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked obediently, "did Mister Schibbel ever talk about someone named Edmond Jude?

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

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

She looked at him primly. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she burbled, "and I don't want to be in Toledo too long. I hope you can do something about Harry soon."

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

"I can fly to Toledo as soon as I pack a handkerchief, a T-shirt, and my hockey puck."

"You'd better take a pigeon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stuttered cruelly.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered properly out of the office. He stared roughly after her.

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