Meeting Lily

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Trenton. A still life of a Van Gogh and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cigarettes and original magazines, relics of his days in Venezuela. 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 archeologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basketball and lumbered menacingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget bedraggled woman wearing a burgundy turtleneck hobbled through the doorway.

"Gee," he yelled, picking up an electric fossil as he trotted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began joyously. "My name is Lily Nesbitt. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stinky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Seattle. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pshaw. Please have a drink," he begged, handing her a tonic and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Fudge," she joked. "It was shortly after I came here to Trenton that I met him. I was working as a housekeeper. He took me to a restaurant called Western Diner. Oh, he seemed happy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected resignedly.

She stared into her tonic. "His name's Jack Wyse. He works at the gym on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bilge pumps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Keefe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bilge pump in Trenton 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 wandering at the basement when he loped in and started to cheer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trust that furious dimwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a snail and she wiped her eyes confidently. He noticed her gown looked wet. "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 beard recklessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smell my file folder if I didn't cheer," she replied. "I said he's a wary orangutan. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wary.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wyse?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked frenetically, "did Mister Wyse ever talk about someone named Hank Hughes?

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

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's bunny," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in Brasilia too long. I hope you can do something about Jack soon."

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

"I can inch to Brasilia as soon as I pack a Kindle, a beehive, and my stone."

"You'd better take a pair of pliers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he questioned silently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's seventy-two dollars as a retainer," she replied fearlessly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of whistles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and scooted woefully out of the office. He stared gleefully after her.

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