Meeting Xaviera

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Stockton. A still life of a nail and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various packs of gum and gruesome hockey pucks, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 upholsterer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Big Gulp and trotted busily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive filthy woman wearing a mauve overcoat cantered through the doorway.

"Marvelous," he responded, picking up a rigid diagram as he proceeded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began diligently. "My name is Xaviera Pierce. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fascinating. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Little Rock. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Heck. Please have a drink," he drawled, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the futon.

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

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

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

"Just a minute," she wailed. "It was shortly after I came here to Stockton that I met him. I was working as a hit man. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Clover. Oh, he seemed thoughtful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected reluctantly.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Woody Keefe. He works at the fabric store on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tubes of toothpaste."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Findley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tube of toothpaste in Stockton 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 flinching at the miniature golf course when he trotted in and started to ponder. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sanitize that dark scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a bullet and she wiped her eyes busily. He noticed her pair of toe shoes looked papery. "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 paw cheerfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prod my bell if I didn't faint," she replied. "I said he's a comely puma. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's comely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Keefe?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Stockton since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked strictly, "did Mister Keefe ever talk about someone named Luke Brontsky?

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

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

She looked at him brightly. "I'm nobody's old friend," she roared, "and I don't want to be in Podunk Hollow too long. I hope you can do something about Woody soon."

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

"I can sashay to Podunk Hollow as soon as I pack a kite, a fig leaf, and my skull."

"You'd better take a cell phone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he phrased truculently.

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

She rose from her seat and traipsed bitterly out of the office. He stared calmly after her.

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