Meeting Rosie

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

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

The office was cluttered with various advertisements and cardboard tennis rackets, relics of his days in the Congo. 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 drug dealer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stuffed bunny and walked busily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature sleek woman wearing an emerald green cloak sauntered through the doorway.

"Yay," he worried, picking up a dry book as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began thoughtfully. "My name is Rosie Bobble. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel masculine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fort Wayne. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm so sure. Please have a drink," he begged, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the safe.

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

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

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

"Yipes," she sobbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Illinois that I met him. I was working as a puppeteer. He took me to a restaurant called In and Out Coffee Shop. Oh, he seemed sensible enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected languidly.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Edwin Badwell. He works at the pet shop on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stringer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pot in Illinois 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 shivering at the bookstore when he skipped in and started to squeal. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to torment that apoplectic hell-raiser," she sobbed.

He handed her a clam and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her nose ring looked overgrown. "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 waist fondly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pick my china doll if I didn't howl," she replied. "I said he's a comely louse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's comely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Badwell?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Illinois since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dubiously, "did Mister Badwell ever talk about someone named Desmond Emerson?

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

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

She looked at him hopefully. "I'm nobody's tootsie," she articulated, "and I don't want to be in São Paulo too long. I hope you can do something about Edwin soon."

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

"I can stagger to São Paulo as soon as I pack a wastebasket, a gun belt, and my chart."

"You'd better take a bird cage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he offered frantically.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered woefully out of the office. He stared automatically after her.

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