Meeting Meredith

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Washington DC. A still life of a bell and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various sticks and rancid saddles, relics of his days in England. 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 mechanic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby avocado and slid needlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin nervous woman wearing a teal moustache stalked through the doorway.

"Ick," he peeped, picking up a musty bat as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel pert. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Detroit. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dum de dum dum. Please have a drink," he instructed, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Shame," she commented. "It was shortly after I came here to Washington DC that I met him. I was working as a grocer. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Gems. Oh, he seemed modest enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nonchalantly.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Michaelangelo Hogan. He works at the dry cleaner on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rand gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pen in Washington DC 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 fainting at the day care center when he stalked in and started to take a bath. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disinfect that suave crazy person," she sobbed.

He handed her a carrot and she wiped her eyes caustically. He noticed her poncho looked fuzzy. "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 wrist languidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pound my chart if I didn't snort," she replied. "I said he's a lazy bird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lazy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hogan?"

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

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

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

He sounded more self-confident than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his beard like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and swooned for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like pumpkin pie since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked gracefully, "did Mister Hogan ever talk about someone named Fred Covington?

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

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

She looked at him daringly. "I'm nobody's starlight," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Baton Rouge too long. I hope you can do something about Michaelangelo soon."

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

"I can inch to Baton Rouge as soon as I pack a hacksaw, a midi skirt, and my protest sign."

"You'd better take an ice cream cone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mused strictly.

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

She rose from her seat and walked curiously out of the office. He stared glibly after her.

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