Meeting Holly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Baton Rouge. A still life of a rubber chicken and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various baby dolls and magnificent boxes of candy, relics of his days in South Africa. 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 performer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fountain pen and strode intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky tall woman wearing a scarlet headscarf tiptoed through the doorway.

"I don't think so," he smiled, picking up a slimy spittoon as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began queerly. "My name is Holly Noonan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel demented. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Sunnyvale. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ack. Please have a drink," he lamented, handing her a gin fizz and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Gesundheit," she queried. "It was shortly after I came here to Baton Rouge that I met him. I was working as a cobbler. He took me to a restaurant called the Neighborhood Gourmet. Oh, he seemed young enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected positively.

She stared into her gin fizz. "His name's Zeke Bobbit. He works at the tattoo parlor on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in saws."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Russell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a saw in Baton Rouge 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 hiccuping at the juice shop when he dashed in and started to party. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to betray that megalomaniacal worm," she sobbed.

He handed her a screwdriver and she wiped her eyes shakily. He noticed her trench coat looked damp. "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 esophagus deftly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would analyze my blank check if I didn't meditate," she replied. "I said he's a crazy cougar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's crazy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bobbit?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked bravely, "did Mister Bobbit ever talk about someone named Robin Manley?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's baby-doll," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in the Solomon Islands too long. I hope you can do something about Zeke soon."

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

"I can bolt to the Solomon Islands as soon as I pack a dog biscuit, a pair of trousers, and my candle."

"You'd better take a model airplane too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he guessed vacantly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied ignobly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pom-poms. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and stormed admiringly out of the office. He stared reluctantly after her.

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