Meeting Rachel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in London. A still life of a pair of scissors and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various brushes and new stacks of papers, relics of his days in Mexico. 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 newscaster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby roll of toilet paper and barrelled firmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf dinky woman wearing a polka dotted bandana skipped through the doorway.

"Shiver me timbers," he appealed, picking up a large acorn as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began urgently. "My name is Rachel Grundy. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel atrocious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Capetown. Her ego made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Golly. Please have a drink," he orated, handing her an Alka-Seltzer and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Ka-ching," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to London that I met him. I was working as an Egyptologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Sky. Oh, he seemed sincere enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected steadily.

She stared into her Alka-Seltzer. "His name's Bud Saint Pierre. He works at the deli on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of shaving cream."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Armstrong gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of shaving cream in London 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 nodding at the laundromat when he pranced in and started to dance. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bury that sanguine maniac," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack and she wiped her eyes slyly. He noticed her tutu looked bizarre. "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 leg zestily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my bagpipe if I didn't lie around in bed," she replied. "I said he's an absent-minded Guinea pig. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's absent-minded.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Saint Pierre?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in London since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked irritably, "did Mister Saint Pierre ever talk about someone named Nicolas Bear?

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

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

She looked at him arrogantly. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she screamed, "and I don't want to be in Huntsville too long. I hope you can do something about Bud soon."

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

"I can prance to Huntsville as soon as I pack a ping-pong paddle, a pair of Crocs, and my roll of toilet paper."

"You'd better take a compass too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he protested noisily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred twenty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied unexpectedly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of flash drives. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and lurched pityingly out of the office. He stared nicely after her.

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