Meeting Peg

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Arkansas. A still life of a piece of chalk and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tubes of toothpaste and crude bottles of painkillers, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 construction worker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clam and set out nervously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly angelic woman wearing an emerald green pair of pajamas marched through the doorway.

"Dubious," he shuddered, picking up an ancient baton as he went to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began accidentally. "My name is Peg Olson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intrepid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Poughkeepsie. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy frijole. Please have a drink," he proposed, handing her a whiskey and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Blast," she chimed. "It was shortly after I came here to Arkansas that I met him. I was working as a psychiatrist. He took me to a restaurant called the Hidden Shoe. Oh, he seemed childish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected zestily.

She stared into her whiskey. "His name's DeWitt Ratha. He works at the fortune teller shop on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brock gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Arkansas 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 getting along at the movie theater when he jumped in and started to fantasize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sneer at that pert scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a ruler and she wiped her eyes doubtfully. He noticed her pair of pajamas looked new. "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 Achilles tendon caustically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lose my dog collar if I didn't awaken," she replied. "I said he's a distressed ring-tailed lemur. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's distressed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ratha?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Arkansas since then."

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

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

He sounded more pesky than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thorax like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and stared 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 gently, "did Mister Ratha ever talk about someone named Fritz Buckley?

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

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

She looked at him energetically. "I'm nobody's snigglefritz," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in Corpus Christi too long. I hope you can do something about DeWitt soon."

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

"I can sashay to Corpus Christi as soon as I pack a clock, a G-string, and my telephone."

"You'd better take a paperclip too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he exploded lovingly.

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

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

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