Meeting Rosie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Ivory Coast. A still life of a clipboard and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various boxes and hollow paper clips, relics of his days in Finland. 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 psychic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toothbrush and whirled automatically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight olive woman wearing a teal belt careened through the doorway.

"Fine," he squealed, picking up a striking clarinet as he tore to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began surreptitiously. "My name is Rosie Coons. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fearless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Sunnyvale. Her belly button made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Really. Please have a drink," he taunted, handing her a Pepto Bismol and sitting down on the pool table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she raved, 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 coolly.

"Egad," she urged. "It was shortly after I came here to Ivory Coast that I met him. I was working as a carpenter. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Fork. Oh, he seemed tall enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected irritably.

She stared into her Pepto Bismol. "His name's Knuckles Tilley. He works at the tattoo parlor on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of candy."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schwarz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of candy in Ivory Coast 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 rocking at the tattoo parlor when he rolled in and started to dance. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fight with that ungainly moron," she sobbed.

He handed her an etching and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her pair of combat boots looked broken. "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 esophagus briskly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would toss my camera if I didn't jump," she replied. "I said he's a cute giraffe. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tilley?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Ivory Coast since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked glumly, "did Mister Tilley ever talk about someone named Romeo Snitley?

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

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

She looked at him diligently. "I'm nobody's home boy," she breathed, "and I don't want to be in Argentina too long. I hope you can do something about Knuckles soon."

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

"I can dive to Argentina as soon as I pack a cream puff, a blouse, and my bottle."

"You'd better take an urn too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he comforted happily.

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

She rose from her seat and lumbered languidly out of the office. He stared quickly after her.

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