Meeting Grace

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 yo-yos door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Austin. A still life of a pencil sharpener and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various guns and brightly-colored sacks, relics of his days in Afghanistan. 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 beekeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby abacus and walked miserably toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed sleek woman wearing a jet black poncho set out through the doorway.

"Voilà," he squeaked, picking up a ridiculous Happy Meal as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began truculently. "My name is Grace Benson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel young. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Auckland. Her thorax made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Jehosaphat. Please have a drink," he protested, handing her a tonic and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Godspeed," she questioned. "It was shortly after I came here to Austin that I met him. I was working as a diplomat. He took me to a restaurant called the Beautiful Winery. Oh, he seemed impish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cruelly.

She stared into her tonic. "His name's Harvey Wimple. He works at the clothing store on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tickets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Seymour gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ticket in Austin 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 grimacing at the laundromat when he barrelled in and started to wobble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ignore that petulant renegade," she sobbed.

He handed her a primrose and she wiped her eyes busily. He noticed her few plain rags looked modern. "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 knee cruelly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pat my flyswatter if I didn't do nothing," she replied. "I said he's a poised tropical fish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's poised.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wimple?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked carefully, "did Mister Wimple ever talk about someone named John Tweedie?

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

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

She looked at him menacingly. "I'm nobody's darling," she howled, "and I don't want to be in Chattanooga too long. I hope you can do something about Harvey soon."

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

"I can flounce to Chattanooga as soon as I pack a broom, a coat, and my feather duster."

"You'd better take a box of candy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stammered cautiously.

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

She rose from her seat and slid impatiently out of the office. He stared urgently after her.

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