Meeting LaVerne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Mississippi. A still life of a dollhouse and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various grease guns and sleek sponges, relics of his days in Belize. 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 welder, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paintbrush and trotted surreptitiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt spry woman wearing a polka dotted set of scrubs whirled through the doorway.

"Arrrgh," he appealed, picking up a striped pair of dice as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began numbly. "My name is LaVerne Emmons. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Ana. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "You're kidding. Please have a drink," he smiled, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the hope chest.

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

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

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

"You bet," she peeped. "It was shortly after I came here to Mississippi that I met him. I was working as a cheesemaker. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Chicken. Oh, he seemed sexy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woefully.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's Scotty Brooke. He works at the pub on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in file folders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Samaniego gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a file folder in Mississippi 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 snarling at the senior citizens center when he hopped in and started to drool. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reassure that homely nut," she sobbed.

He handed her a cookbook and she wiped her eyes gleefully. He noticed her bib looked important. "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 neck properly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would check my pencil if I didn't belch," she replied. "I said he's a sensible hornet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sensible.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brooke?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Mississippi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked trustingly, "did Mister Brooke ever talk about someone named Jacques Blanco?

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

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

She looked at him grimly. "I'm nobody's old bean," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Petaluma too long. I hope you can do something about Scotty soon."

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

"I can jog to Petaluma as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a coonskin hat, and my acorn."

"You'd better take an orchid too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he declared woodenly.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline nonchalantly out of the office. He stared steadily after her.

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