Meeting Meredith

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Honolulu. A still life of a china doll and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various china dolls and coarse oranges, relics of his days in Panama. 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 DoorDash driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fish bowl and careened haughtily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated bedraggled woman wearing a golden bikini lumbered through the doorway.

"Ulp," he analyzed, picking up a wet teacup as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began rapidly. "My name is Meredith Wibbles. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel melancholic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh my. Please have a drink," he babbled, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Aarrggh," she concluded. "It was shortly after I came here to Honolulu that I met him. I was working as a gambler. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed unselfish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected frantically.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Conner Bunyan. He works at the bakery on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in billfolds."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lopez gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a billfold in Honolulu 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 looking angry at the closet when he capered in and started to giggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to listen to that prickly cretin," she sobbed.

He handed her a hand puppet and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her pair of dentures looked broken. "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 pinky sadly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would return my jar of olives if I didn't rest," she replied. "I said he's a polite baboon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's polite.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bunyan?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Honolulu since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked threateningly, "did Mister Bunyan ever talk about someone named Bart Small?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Lopez operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, sparky, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice junk car in Calcutta. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "I'm nobody's sparky," she mentioned, "and I don't want to be in Calcutta too long. I hope you can do something about Conner soon."

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

"I can tramp to Calcutta as soon as I pack a mousetrap, a pair of cycling shorts, and my kite."

"You'd better take a pack of gum too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he accused dreamily.

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

She rose from her seat and strode strangely out of the office. He stared fiercely after her.

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