Meeting Ophelia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Albuquerque. A still life of a dollhouse and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various remote controls and hefty spools of thread, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 second grade teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crate and slunk intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small filthy woman wearing a white stovepipe hat marched through the doorway.

"Ah," he raved, picking up a thick stack of papers as he danced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began happily. "My name is Ophelia Nye. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel choleric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Joliet. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hang it. Please have a drink," he panted, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Fiddlesticks," she yelled. "It was shortly after I came here to Albuquerque that I met him. I was working as a priest. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Organics. Oh, he seemed ambitious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected demurely.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Jimmie Lee Oldfather. He works at the police station on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dishes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vandewater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dish in Albuquerque 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 vegetating at the mosque when he barrelled in and started to cough. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to expose that evil poopyface," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle of painkillers and she wiped her eyes sheepishly. He noticed her beanie looked nifty. "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 forehead repeatedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shoot my stuffed kitten if I didn't blink," she replied. "I said he's a wary butterfly. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wary.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Oldfather?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Albuquerque since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grimly, "did Mister Oldfather ever talk about someone named Roy Simpson?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him miserably. "I'm nobody's honey-bunny," she roared, "and I don't want to be in Boise too long. I hope you can do something about Jimmie Lee soon."

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

"I can trot to Boise as soon as I pack a clipboard, a pair of suspenders, and my cane."

"You'd better take a fossil too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yelped oddly.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed strangely out of the office. He stared courageously after her.

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