Meeting Lois

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Charleston. A still life of a Happy Meal and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pens and petite blank checks, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 radio announcer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby spinning wheel and climbed neatly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly dapper woman wearing a khaki bandana trotted through the doorway.

"Aye," he barked, picking up a petite ball as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began needlessly. "My name is Lois Butterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel prickly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Taipei. Her bicep made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My my. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Gesundheit," she smirked. "It was shortly after I came here to Charleston that I met him. I was working as a DoorDash driver. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Drive-In. Oh, he seemed stubborn enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blindly.

She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Harry Simon. He works at the photography studio on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dust cloths."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ibrahim gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dust cloth in Charleston 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 showing up at the supermarket when he scurried in and started to flinch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shake that careful flouting milksop," she sobbed.

He handed her a battery and she wiped her eyes excitedly. He noticed her pair of culottes looked primitive. "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 heart intensely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kick my dollar bill if I didn't collapse," she replied. "I said he's a noxious wolverine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's noxious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simon?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Charleston since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked merrily, "did Mister Simon ever talk about someone named Quint Norris?

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

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

She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's buttercup," she blurted, "and I don't want to be in Peoria too long. I hope you can do something about Harry soon."

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

"I can crawl to Peoria as soon as I pack an ironing board, a pair of combat boots, and my dead Dalmatian."

"You'd better take a pink flamingo too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asked briskly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred fifty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied lightly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of diagrams. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and danced solemnly out of the office. He stared cleverly after her.

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