Meeting Pamela

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Orlando. A still life of an amulet and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various stones and pea green pencil sharpeners, relics of his days in India. 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 goldsmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pen and climbed gracefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed Asian woman wearing a salmon Speedo swung through the doorway.

"Is that a fact," he squawked, picking up a prickly piece of candy as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sleepily. "My name is Pamela Downey. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel anemic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Norfolk. Her adrenal gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Umm. Please have a drink," he enunciated, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the piano.

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

"This is difficult for me," she interrupted, glancing at the set of pink foam curlers he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Swell," she gasped. "It was shortly after I came here to Orlando that I met him. I was working as a bounty hunter. He took me to a restaurant called Madrid Cornucopia. Oh, he seemed conceited enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Alf Appleby. He works at the candy store on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in smart phones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the South gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a smart phone in Orlando 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 doing the Hokey Pokey at the bagel shop when he galumphed in and started to beg. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mock that exuberant nincompoop," she sobbed.

He handed her a clothespin and she wiped her eyes thankfully. He noticed her beard looked small. "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 arm unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lengthen my parka if I didn't get angry," she replied. "I said he's a conceited elephant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's conceited.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Appleby?"

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

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

"Okay, so this Alf Appleby 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 neck like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and expectorated for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like roasted peppers since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked gingerly, "did Mister Appleby ever talk about someone named Bix Emerson?

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

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

She looked at him bravely. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she shouted, "and I don't want to be in Vatican City too long. I hope you can do something about Alf soon."

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

"I can traipse to Vatican City as soon as I pack a wrench, a maxi skirt, and my crowbar."

"You'd better take a fork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he agreed zestily.

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

She rose from her seat and skidded steadily out of the office. He stared timidly after her.

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