Meeting Bettie Lou

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Lincoln. A still life of a broom and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various duffel bags and bizarre decks of cards, relics of his days in Italy. 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 television newscaster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toilet plunger and set out openly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal blue-eyed woman wearing a maroon flour sack pranced through the doorway.

"Poof," he breathed, picking up a new key ring as he set out to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began happily. "My name is Bettie Lou Palmer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel demented. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in New Orleans. Her face made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Malarkey. Please have a drink," he grieved, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Eww," she conversed. "It was shortly after I came here to Lincoln that I met him. I was working as a microbiologist. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Pond. Oh, he seemed big enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected glibly.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Nickolas Hogan. He works at the coffee shop on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in peanuts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the White gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a peanut in Lincoln 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 coming over at the K-Mart when he skipped in and started to play Farmer in the Dell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scratch that nonchalant dunce," she sobbed.

He handed her a hubcap and she wiped her eyes woodenly. He noticed her derby looked ridiculous. "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 intestine wearily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clean my toolbox if I didn't chuckle," she replied. "I said he's a megalomaniacal crow. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's megalomaniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hogan?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Lincoln since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked primly, "did Mister Hogan ever talk about someone named Paco Hopper?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the White 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 travel trailer in Cincinnati. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him ferociously. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she winked, "and I don't want to be in Cincinnati too long. I hope you can do something about Nickolas soon."

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

"I can tear to Cincinnati as soon as I pack a doll, a tie, and my curling iron."

"You'd better take a pencil too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried sleepily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred thirty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied sleepily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of calling cards. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and bounded thankfully out of the office. He stared pitifully after her.

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