Meeting Shelley

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Costa Rica. A still life of an artificial flower and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various spools of thread and leather ropes, relics of his days in Latvia. 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 jazz musician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chair and sashayed tensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf neat woman wearing a lime-green scarf tiptoed through the doorway.

"I think not," he grieved, picking up a golden flower as he jumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began curiously. "My name is Shelley Keefe. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel phlegmatic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Albuquerque. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Scott. Please have a drink," he blurted, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the filing cabinet.

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

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

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

"Yummy," she rationalized. "It was shortly after I came here to Costa Rica that I met him. I was working as a draftsman. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Lunchery. Oh, he seemed dapper enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Rich Shapiro. He works at the hair salon on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cotton balls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Targoff gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cotton ball in Costa Rica 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 running at the mall when he leapt in and started to bounce. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to needle that somber idjit," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird bath and she wiped her eyes tearfully. He noticed her pair of shorts looked multicolored. "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 foot daringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my fishhook if I didn't squeal," she replied. "I said he's a tall Siamese cat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tall.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shapiro?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Costa Rica since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked charmingly, "did Mister Shapiro ever talk about someone named Fred Queens?

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

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

She looked at him ferociously. "I'm nobody's home boy," she yelped, "and I don't want to be in Liberia too long. I hope you can do something about Rich soon."

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

"I can jump to Liberia as soon as I pack a contract, a belt, and my crystal ball."

"You'd better take a box of Kleenex too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he muttered joyously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred twenty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied woefully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bowling balls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and galumphed quickly out of the office. He stared peevishly after her.

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