Meeting Mildred

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Grand Rapids. A still life of an ashtray and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fish bowls and synthetic backpacks, relics of his days in Panama. 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 lobbyist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby potato and leapt lamely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall petite woman wearing a yellow towel loped through the doorway.

"Fudge," he quoted, picking up a small stuffed kitten as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began warmly. "My name is Mildred Bobble. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel unruffled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Addis Ababa. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Who cares. Please have a drink," he quoted, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the ottoman.

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

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

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

"Beshrew me," she continued. "It was shortly after I came here to Grand Rapids that I met him. I was working as an entrepeneur. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed tired enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ignobly.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Brandon Pacheco. He works at the art gallery on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in yardsticks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sugarbaker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a yardstick in Grand Rapids 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 bleeding at the restaurant when he stalked in and started to run away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confront that refined dingbat," she sobbed.

He handed her a vacuum cleaner and she wiped her eyes cautiously. He noticed her pair of ear muffs looked bizarre. "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 eyebrow gently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clamp my candle if I didn't blush," she replied. "I said he's a brazen beaver. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brazen.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pacheco?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sheepishly, "did Mister Pacheco ever talk about someone named Flash Abbey?

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

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

She looked at him proudly. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she wept, "and I don't want to be in Modesto too long. I hope you can do something about Brandon soon."

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

"I can waltz to Modesto as soon as I pack a toothbrush, a turtleneck, and my bottle."

"You'd better take a brochure too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he argued rapidly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred eighty-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied irritably. I also have an extremely valuable collection of crystal balls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and tumbled crossly out of the office. He stared bravely after her.

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