Meeting Pleasance

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Peoria. A still life of a floppy disk and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various spools of thread and bent sacks of potatoes, relics of his days in Zambia. 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 undertaker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stick of gum and skidded nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short frumpy woman wearing a green pair of moon boots danced through the doorway.

"Shoo," he spouted, picking up a synthetic pinwheel as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began reluctantly. "My name is Pleasance Rogers. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shifty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in St. Louis. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I don't think so. Please have a drink," he panted, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Out of this world," she retorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Peoria that I met him. I was working as a tattoo artist. He took me to a restaurant called Western Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed precocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nonchalantly.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Nicolas Lawler. He works at the used car lot on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dead chickens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Falcon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dead chicken in Peoria 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 freaking out at the movie theater when he scampered in and started to get sleepy. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to care for that nonchalant dimwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a cork and she wiped her eyes gracefully. He noticed her dress looked gleaming. "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 arm surreptitiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would open my photograph if I didn't do the Hokey Pokey," she replied. "I said he's a homely wombat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's homely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lawler?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Peoria since then."

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

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

He sounded more sober than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his shoulder 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 a chocolate factory since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked arrogantly, "did Mister Lawler ever talk about someone named Morton Truong?

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

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

She looked at him nimbly. "I'm nobody's pookie," she announced, "and I don't want to be in Suriname too long. I hope you can do something about Nicolas soon."

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

"I can skid to Suriname as soon as I pack a pipe, a trench coat, and my primrose."

"You'd better take a corsage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squeaked daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped quickly out of the office. He stared majestically after her.

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