Meeting Riley

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Serbia. A still life of a candle and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pencil sharpeners and frilly hair brushes, relics of his days in Ethiopia. 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 emergency medical technician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of soup and staggered defiantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive pallid woman wearing a magenta birthday suit staggered through the doorway.

"Yow," he griped, picking up an art deco ironing board as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began pityingly. "My name is Riley Mouse. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fascinating. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Ottawa. Her collarbone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good golly. Please have a drink," he called, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"Gosh," she wailed. "It was shortly after I came here to Serbia that I met him. I was working as a physician. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Dynasty. Oh, he seemed selfish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sourly.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Marty Fretwell. He works at the popcorn shop on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pizzas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lawler gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pizza in Serbia 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 spitting at the rock concert when he sneaked in and started to glare. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to peck at that crazy freak," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack of potatoes and she wiped her eyes defiantly. He noticed her black belt looked decrepit. "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 earlobe strangely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would drag my paper bag if I didn't get dizzy," she replied. "I said he's a sarcastic dormouse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sarcastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fretwell?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked frantically, "did Mister Fretwell ever talk about someone named Giovanni Gutierrez?

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

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

She looked at him quickly. "I'm nobody's dear," she yammered, "and I don't want to be in Colombia too long. I hope you can do something about Marty soon."

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

"I can lurch to Colombia as soon as I pack a screwdriver, a ring, and my urn."

"You'd better take a file folder too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he called thoughtfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred forty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied miserably. 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 scampered crankily out of the office. He stared glibly after her.

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