Meeting Callie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in St. Petersburg. A still life of a can of sardines and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various acorns and overgrown doilies, relics of his days in New Guinea. 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 drunkard, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cigar and rushed surreptitiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive bedraggled woman wearing an olive green pair of cargo pants rushed through the doorway.

"Ho hum," he spat, picking up a torn compass as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tenderly. "My name is Callie MacIntire. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disagreeable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cincinnati. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shazam. Please have a drink," he brought up, handing her a Mountain Dew and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Lordy," she wondered. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Petersburg that I met him. I was working as a chauffeur. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Grassland. Oh, he seemed obedient enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sheepishly.

She stared into her Mountain Dew. "His name's Frank Simmons. He works at the art museum on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in carrots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gross gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a carrot in St. Petersburg 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 clattering at the rock concert when he hobbled in and started to grumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shock that tired clown," she sobbed.

He handed her a twig and she wiped her eyes excitedly. He noticed her kimono looked art deco. "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 nose daringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would roast my Egyptian mummy if I didn't sniffle," she replied. "I said he's a talkative horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's talkative.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simmons?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in St. Petersburg since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked softly, "did Mister Simmons ever talk about someone named Arnie Wright?

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

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

She looked at him woodenly. "I'm nobody's cutie," she griped, "and I don't want to be in Hell too long. I hope you can do something about Frank soon."

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

"I can breeze to Hell as soon as I pack a box of candy, a pair of jackboots, and my crystal ball."

"You'd better take a flower too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stormed dolorously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred eighty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied carelessly. 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 lurched cunningly out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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