Meeting Eloise

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Armenia. A still life of a remote control and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various fishing poles and loose feather dusters, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 fruit picker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diamond and trekked confidently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature beautiful woman wearing a striped robe hopped through the doorway.

"Boy howdy," he wailed, picking up a bronze salt shaker as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sharply. "My name is Eloise Butterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel self-confident. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Myrtle Beach. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bada bing bada boom. Please have a drink," he hollered, handing her a cup of espresso and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Umm," she babbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Armenia that I met him. I was working as a drummer. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Dining Room. Oh, he seemed sinister enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sourly.

She stared into her cup of espresso. "His name's Lance Ferguson. He works at the fabric store on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Caldwell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a brush in Armenia 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 raising an eyebrow at the wine tasting when he stormed in and started to get away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to play with that atrocious oddball," she sobbed.

He handed her an air compressor and she wiped her eyes ingeniously. He noticed her military uniform 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 knee cheerfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pulverize my Hostess Ding Dong if I didn't stretch," she replied. "I said he's a gallant iguana. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gallant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ferguson?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Armenia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked thoughtfully, "did Mister Ferguson ever talk about someone named Gus Black?

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

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

She looked at him fearfully. "I'm nobody's turtle dove," she affirmed, "and I don't want to be in Swaziland too long. I hope you can do something about Lance soon."

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

"I can fly to Swaziland as soon as I pack a button, a dress, and my hacksaw."

"You'd better take a spool of thread too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded nonchalantly.

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

She rose from her seat and clambered frenetically out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.

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