Sounded like dirty work to me.

I fiddled with a rubber band, twirling it around. “Still, it sounds as if you don’t need a criminal specialist, so tell me what you want and why. I’ll tell you whether I can and will help you.” I shot the rubber band. It hit the window and landed on the sill on a pile of rubber bands.

CRAIG’S FOLLY BY GUNTHER BOCCIUS 34TH PARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 88

Feet up on the desk, I was munching potato chips and flipping through Sports Illustrated. Well, just like that, through the door came this barrel-chested guy with a keg stomach and bushy, blond eyebrows, a broad smile, and the largest, meaty hands I’ve ever seen. “Hi, I’m Bob Campbell,” he said. Reaching across the desk he grabbed my wiry hand in his and pumped it so hard he nearly tipped me out of my chair. “I think I need your help.” Bob said.

A little nonplussed, I put my feet on the floor. Who was this guy?

“You an attorney? I was looking for Suite 313B. Zelda gave me the number.”

“Zelda?”

“Yeah, my wife Zelda. I know, I know, it’s from the …