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About ten the next morning I was giving the proverbial bum's rush to a greasy little creep sporting a dirty but flashy diamond pinkie ring who had just offered me the glorious opportunity of helping him frame his long-suffering wife so she wouldn't get anything from him when she divorced him. The interview hadn't started off particularly well inasmuch as within seconds of his no-appointment arrival, he had crossed his ostrich-skin cowboy boots on the corner of my desk, lit up a foot-long stogie, and belched a mammoth burst of garlic-laden smoke in my face as he said, "I can see we're going to get along real good, sweet cheeks." He chewed on the disgusting thing sticking out of his face, waggling his eyebrows at me lasciviously all the while. Yech! Not as yet aware of his proposal for my services and the bank account being skinnier than I would wish, I bit back several pithy responses, saying as evenly as I could considering a pulse rate that had shot in three seconds to about 130, "Sir, remove your footwear from my furniture, first; second, my name is plainly imprinted on the walnut slab facing you; and third" -- I had to bite down on it again -- "Just tell me why you're here, and what I can do for you, will you?" "Well, excuse me, lady. You didn't strike me as one of those." He slowly lowered his boots to the floor, all the while looking put-upon and insulted. One of what those do you suppose he means? I was really feeling warm around the edges, I still didn't know what he was after, and my notoriously short fuse was not getting any longer. "Tell me, Mr. Hitchman, what can I do for you?" Out with it, you little putz, so I can get you and your damned ceegar out of my office. After puffing another foul fogbank towards the ceiling -- I'll probably have to repaint the entire building -- he hawked, looked around, reconsidered and swallowed. Good idea. And he finally got down to business. "Well, you see, my old lady, Lola -- that bitch -- has gone and gotten herself a lawyer to divorce me, if you can believe that!" I could -- oh, certainly, I could, even if Lola was the most awful female specimen to come down the road in decades-- nose like a rhino, four-foot-six and one-eighty pounds, feet like manhole covers. Even if that described Lola with precision, she didn't deserve him. "Are you contesting the divorce, Mr. Hitchman?" Keep it in the ballpark here -- he tended to wander. "Contest the divorce? Hell, no, sweet -- lady; I'm real happy to be rid of the old biddy, let me tell you!" He huffed and puffed and squirmed at the very thought of contesting the divorce. "Maybe you should just tell me what I can do for you, under the circumstances, Mr. Hitchman. I'm afraid I just don't quite comprehend what it is you want of me." Out with it, for Pete's sake! "Well, you see, this is -- well, it's gonna kill me if she gets a thin dime from me, after all I done for her. We been married sixteen years, and now she wants the house, one of the cars, the dog, and money every month outta my pocket so she can live like a queen on my money! I tell ya, women will suck every drop out of a man, give 'em an inch!" He bristled with his indignation at the pain of it all. I saw a way of bringing this to a sudden halt. "Mr. Hitchman, what she gets from you after a divorce which you are not contesting is something for the attorneys to flesh out as well as something for the judge to adjudicate. No other disinterested person has any part to play in this at all. So if you're looking for me to --" "Lady, if you'll gimme a minute, I'll explain to you what I want you to do for me." He began to get a little shifty, as though this entire conversation was not progressing quite as he had envisioned it. He twitched his chunky fanny around in the chair for a bit, and then at long last blurted out with it. "I been watching you, lady, and the comings and goings of that young stud who "works" for you." He paused suggestively. Works for me? Dipshit must mean Ted, my now-and-then gofer and coffee-guzzling young friend. This dilly must think there is "something going on there." Obviously, he hasn't seen George Halley, with whom "something" is definitely going on. Ted would faint with embarrassment, were he here. I was beginning to enjoy this. "Please do continue, Mr. Hitchman." My pleasant tone and expression reassured the twit, and he blundered ahead, getting him and his mouth deeper into the organic material by the word. "So I figured a dame -- 'scuse me -- a lady with a young buck around probably needs all the green stuff she can get -- you know, presents and stuff?" Again, the waggling and leering, oh, Lord. "So I says to myself, 'Myself, maybe this broad is just what you need.'" "And did 'myself' say anything in reply, Mr. Hitchman?" He peered at me suspiciously for a long moment, but then rushed ahead. "Oh, I getcha -- yeah, funny, lady -- that's real funny." He hawked again -- I'll kill him, I swear, if he -- but with some effort, he swallowed and forged ahead. "Well, the point is, I want you and your friend to help me set Lola up so's the lousy judge won't give her one red cent after I'm rid of the old battle-axe. "My rough plan is, your young fella can sort of accidentally meet up with Lola, win her over -- you know, a little sweet-talk, a little -- well, you get the picture, don't ya?" Oh, yes, indeedy -- I get the picture. "You need to polish it up, of course, because even if Lola is an ugly old broad, she's not completely stupid." Oh, yes, she most assuredly is; she stayed married to you for sixteen years, didn't she? "But I figure in your business you probably do lots of jobs like this, and you'll be able to knock the rough edges off." He paused and waited for my contribution; I found it difficult to come up with a fitting response to his terrific idea. "Well, how about it, lady? What do you say?" As I removed my plant spray bottle of water from the bottom drawer of my desk, I changed the nozzle from "mist" to "spray." Then I partly rose to assure myself of good aim. The first blast of cold, slightly stale water caught him square in the cigar, splattering ash and general glop all over him and his ostrich-skin boots. In his effort to escape from the nearly continual stream of water I was enthusiastically pumping at him, he nearly succeeded in upending the chair. I was glad he didn't fall; I didn't want to hurt him physically -- well, not too much, anyway -- just drive him, his stogie, and his detestable plan from my premises. "Mr. Hitchman, leave immediately. Don't even think about contacting me ever again for any conceivable reason. You have thirty seconds to clear the front door; after that, this gentle spray of cleansing water will seem like the best thing that ever happened to you. "Good-bye, Mr. Hitchman," I called to his scurrying backside as he nearly bowled poor Whitey over in his haste to escape the crazy woman who didn't know a good thing when she heard it. Whitey watched the rather damp creature waddle off with as much dignity as he could muster, finally turning his homely face to me and commenting, "I presume that's not your usual method of ushering potential clients from your office, is it? If so, we're going to have to figure out a way to get you on the public dole, or your poor dog will starve." He started to come the rest of the way in, then put up both hands in mock horror, gesturing with his chin towards the watery weapon I still brandished. "Oh, get in here, you idiot." I replaced the bottle in the drawer before heading to the garage loo to collect some paper towels for mopping up the water in and around my visitor's chair. Whitey helped me swab up, including fumigating the air with a little room freshener, while I told him about Hitchman's delightful proposal. "Jeeze, knowing as I do how well-armed you usually are, he should be damned grateful you didn't shoot him where he sat," Whitey marveled, wadding up the last of the towels and throwing the damp mess in the waste basket. "Blood's harder to clean up than water," was the only brilliant thing I could think of. "At that, the little bastard is probably talking to his lawyer right now with the hopes of charging me with assault." Whitey laughed, but added, "It wouldn't surprise me a bit -- little does these days." After we pulled up a dry chair to my desk for Whitey and he got comfortably seated, we got to the purpose of his unexpected visit. "Does the name Elizabeth Conroy mean anything to you?" Tacking a name onto a face has always been a problem for me, but I can usually recall any name I've heard even if I can't associate a particular person with it. I thought for a bit, and then said, "Sorry, Whitey -- it doesn't ring any bells. Why? Should it?" For answer, Whitey extracted a folder from his pocket, one with the plastic window in it so the contents can be seen, and handed it to me. When I looked through the clear panel, what I saw was a slightly grubby sealed envelope which was addressed to "Sheila Casey, 225l Nelson Street," carefully printed in blue ballpoint. "So, where does this Elizabeth Conroy come in?" "She was found in her bed this morning about six by her son, Rodger, a thoroughly unpleasant young man who is well known to the beat cops patrolling the seedier streets of lower downtown. He fancies himself a poet, and is a latter-day-hippie-without-the-courage-of-his-convictions. He still lives off of his mother -- well, he did until she died in her sleep sometime earlier this morning." I looked again at the envelope, and asked, "What about this?" "The envelope was under her pillow. From the box of stationery on the table, the phone book still open to the page containing your ad, and so on, it looks like she put whatever it is in the envelope, addressed it to you, sealed it up, went to bed with it, and sometime shortly thereafter died." Not much to say about that, I guess. We both stared out of my front window, half watching the world go by, unaware as they were someone had died all alone in the early hours of this beautiful autumn day. I roused myself to continue. "I guess no one has read what's in there, have they?" Whitey shook his head, "No, no one has. Of course, since it is addressed to you, you should be the one to read it." He shrugged, turning a palm up. "Well, you've got this in an evidence folder, Whitey. Do I just open it up and read it? You have any reason to suspect --" "No, no, we're sure the death is completely natural -- that is, if 'natural' is the right word for dying in as much pain from cancer as she probably did. The folder was just a logical place to put it. "The M.E. told me she was riddled with it. He called the doctor named on her pain-reliever prescription bottle, and got the whole story. Wonder she lasted this long." Whitey shook his head, looked at the floor. I recalled from many years ago his mother had walked that same rocky path, and he had been unable to do anything more for her than stand and watch her die; it took much too long. He abruptly stretched until his shoulder joints popped, then hoisted himself erect. "Well, chica, it's been a long, long night, and I'm going to take my weary body home to a hero's welcome." He headed to the door, saying as he left, "Call me and let me know, if you want, what she said in her letter to you." "I'll surely do that, Whitey, and thanks for bringing it to me." He waggled a hand over his shoulder and was gone. I turned the unopened envelope over a couple of times as if I could learn something from the smudged paper. At last I slit it open with my letter opener and extracted the half-dozen sheets of closely-written but very legible writing which was then signed by Elizabeth Conroy and addressed to me. The first sentences read, "Please help me, Miss Casey, to see to my boy when I'm gone. Since you are a woman, I know you can understand why although I've never told anyone before my secret, now I need help. I'm praying you are the one to provide it." For some time I read on, idly rubbing the silky ears of Fuzz who somehow had found his way into my lap. When I was finished, I read it one more time. It wasn't any easier to read the second time. |