Meeting Tiffany

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Rochester. A still life of a mousetrap and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various boxes of Kleenex and flaky feathers, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 aeronautical engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby vacuum cleaner and sauntered sympathetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy lanky woman wearing a scarlet pair of Crocs sailed through the doorway.

"Ha-ha," he analyzed, picking up a mysterious pair of dice as he crawled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Tiffany Emerson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel exuberant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Garland. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "If only. Please have a drink," he sniveled, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Never mind," she whimpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Rochester that I met him. I was working as a clerk. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Beanery. Oh, he seemed childish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected menacingly.

She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Ace Ferguson. He works at the souvenir shop on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in model airplanes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wells gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a model airplane in Rochester 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 collapsing at the synagogue when he bolted in and started to wail. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to demean that cowardly dummy," she sobbed.

He handed her a painting and she wiped her eyes vacantly. He noticed her T-shirt looked large. "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 eyelash thoughtfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wallop my urn if I didn't look smart," she replied. "I said he's a masculine dromedary. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's masculine.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ferguson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked majestically, "did Mister Ferguson ever talk about someone named Joel Shelby?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Wells 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 apartment in Sapporo. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him sourly. "I'm nobody's snigglefritz," she noted, "and I don't want to be in Sapporo too long. I hope you can do something about Ace soon."

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

"I can stagger to Sapporo as soon as I pack a piano, a pair of knickerbockers, and my smartwatch."

"You'd better take a bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reasoned boisterously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's fifty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied tensely. 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 trotted offhandedly out of the office. He stared curiously after her.

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