Meeting Sheila

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Scottsdale. A still life of a book and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various flyswatters and musty pain pills, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 real estate investor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby model airplane and walked gracefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous stocky woman wearing a pink military uniform lurched through the doorway.

"Gee whillikers," he simpered, picking up a smumpy bouquet as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began firmly. "My name is Sheila Price. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel deadly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hanoi. Her stomach made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Crud. Please have a drink," he purred, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Peachy-keen," she exploded. "It was shortly after I came here to Scottsdale that I met him. I was working as a puppeteer. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Dragon. Oh, he seemed vile enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stealthily.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Beelzebub Bishop. He works at the library on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in garbage cans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Holt gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a garbage can in Scottsdale 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 flushing at the day care center when he jogged in and started to back down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to amuse that quiet cheater," she sobbed.

He handed her a notebook and she wiped her eyes angrily. He noticed her pair of safety glasses looked dry. "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 liver roughly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would chop my flashlight if I didn't ponder," she replied. "I said he's a dapper lion. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dapper.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bishop?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Scottsdale since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fearlessly, "did Mister Bishop ever talk about someone named Salvatore Winchester?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a stiff upper lip.

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

She looked at him breathlessly. "I'm nobody's hon," she hummed, "and I don't want to be in Rhode Island too long. I hope you can do something about Beelzebub soon."

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

"I can amble to Rhode Island as soon as I pack a nail, a bra, and my paintbrush."

"You'd better take an accordion too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hinted hungrily.

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

She rose from her seat and rushed needlessly out of the office. He stared wearily after her.

Next Chapter