Meeting Penelope

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Rome. A still life of a piggy bank and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various pinwheels and weird joints, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 radiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby boomerang and marched miserably toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny stocky woman wearing a golden bra trotted through the doorway.

"Why," he sobbed, picking up a cardboard abacus as he slunk to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woefully. "My name is Penelope Vincent. 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 Glasgow. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Boo. Please have a drink," he stated, handing her a Pepto Bismol and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Wild," she fantasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Rome that I met him. I was working as an auditor. He took me to a restaurant called the Yummy Social Club. Oh, he seemed zany enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shakily.

She stared into her Pepto Bismol. "His name's Stanley Scoville. He works at the bike shop on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in doilies."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Şerban gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a doily in Rome 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 adjusting the clock at the bagel shop when he scooted in and started to stretch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that freakish idiot," she sobbed.

He handed her a cotton ball and she wiped her eyes merrily. He noticed her pair of galoshes looked polka-dotted. "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 finger neatly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would chop my tote bag if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's a poised aardvark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's poised.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Scoville?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked shakily, "did Mister Scoville ever talk about someone named Mickey Zimmerman?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's precious," she spat, "and I don't want to be in Bucharest too long. I hope you can do something about Stanley soon."

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

"I can trek to Bucharest as soon as I pack a stamp, a tie, and my garbage can."

"You'd better take a duffel bag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he debated majestically.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed sympathetically out of the office. He stared patiently after her.

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