Meeting Kelly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in the Virgin Islands. A still life of a bridal gown and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dictionaries and waxy cans of soup, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 delivery driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby shoe and whirled haughtily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly homely woman wearing an aquamarine award medal inched through the doorway.

"Ahh," he exclaimed, picking up a crude bottle of painkillers as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Kelly Cadwallader. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel poised. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Carlsbad. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aye. Please have a drink," he babbled, handing her a Harvey Wallbanger and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

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

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

"Get out," she piped up. "It was shortly after I came here to the Virgin Islands that I met him. I was working as a technician. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Serpent. Oh, he seemed frumpy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected elatedly.

She stared into her Harvey Wallbanger. "His name's Anthony Slade. He works at the opera house on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in protest signs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the DeMille gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a protest sign in the Virgin Islands 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 going limp at the bedroom when he staggered in and started to howl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to neglect that obese wannabe," she sobbed.

He handed her a sponge and she wiped her eyes swiftly. He noticed her pair of booties looked amazing. "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 earlobe threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my piece of candy if I didn't quiver," she replied. "I said he's a miniscule colt. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's miniscule.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Slade?"

"Only a month; I've only been in the Virgin Islands since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sympathetically, "did Mister Slade ever talk about someone named Noah Shoemaker?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the DeMille operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, dear heart, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice motor home in Greensboro. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him truculently. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she said, "and I don't want to be in Greensboro too long. I hope you can do something about Anthony soon."

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

"I can dive to Greensboro as soon as I pack a sponge, a kilt, and my bird bath."

"You'd better take a screwdriver too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he boomed anxiously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred thirty dollars as a retainer," she replied unnaturally. I also have an extremely valuable collection of rubber stamps. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and careened timidly out of the office. He stared flightily after her.

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