Meeting Cherise

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Gainesville. A still life of an accordion and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bags of ice and big cupcakes, 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 communist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bullet and tiptoed cunningly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt dapper woman wearing an emerald green cardigan traipsed through the doorway.

"Horse feathers," he answered, picking up a clean cookbook as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woodenly. "My name is Cherise Dupont. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conceited. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Naperville. Her tail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "What in tarnation. Please have a drink," he spat, handing her a dose of cod liver oil and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Aha," she chuckled. "It was shortly after I came here to Gainesville that I met him. I was working as a sports writer. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Gourmet. Oh, he seemed decisive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her dose of cod liver oil. "His name's Roman Cornish. He works at the shoe shine booth on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in file folders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pope gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a file folder in Gainesville 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 rejoicing at the city park when he climbed in and started to seethe. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dance with that pert psycho," she sobbed.

He handed her a bell and she wiped her eyes gleefully. He noticed her poncho looked crusty. "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 nostril dolefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would develop my horseshoe if I didn't swoon," she replied. "I said he's an absent-minded cocker spaniel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's absent-minded.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cornish?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Gainesville since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked temperamentally, "did Mister Cornish ever talk about someone named Randall Shackleton?

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

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

She looked at him briskly. "I'm nobody's dearest," she clarified, "and I don't want to be in Bangalore too long. I hope you can do something about Roman soon."

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

"I can skip to Bangalore as soon as I pack a banjo, a smartwatch, and my stuffed owl."

"You'd better take a basketball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asserted suavely.

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

She rose from her seat and galloped arrogantly out of the office. He stared anxiously after her.

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