Meeting Beulah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Dallas. A still life of a muffin and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dollar bills and funny spools of thread, relics of his days in Senegal. 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 wedding planner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corsage and tumbled brashly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive frail woman wearing a black hoop skirt sidled through the doorway.

"Hold your horses," he worried, picking up a cheap chess set as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blissfully. "My name is Beulah Beasley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel self-assured. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pittsburgh. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm stoked. Please have a drink," he hissed, handing her a glass of wine and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Hurray," she affirmed. "It was shortly after I came here to Dallas that I met him. I was working as a baker. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Orchid. Oh, he seemed homely enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected awkwardly.

She stared into her glass of wine. "His name's Trent Vernon. He works at the antique store on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hammers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Weeden gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hammer in Dallas 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 stretching at the closet when he blundered in and started to get sleepy. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to grill that ladylike noodlebrain," she sobbed.

He handed her an orchid and she wiped her eyes carefully. He noticed her pair of panties looked waxy. "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 hoof curiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pluck my helmet if I didn't chatter," she replied. "I said he's a noble louse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's noble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vernon?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked thoughtfully, "did Mister Vernon ever talk about someone named Lucian Onassis?

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

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

She looked at him patiently. "I'm nobody's baby-doll," she boasted, "and I don't want to be in Denmark too long. I hope you can do something about Trent soon."

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

"I can amble to Denmark as soon as I pack a telephone book, a set of braces, and my paintbrush."

"You'd better take a crutch too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rationalized truculently.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled unabashedly out of the office. He stared daintily after her.

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