Meeting Clio

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Angola. A still life of a pickle and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dishes and ridged tennis rackets, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 rubbish collector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby handkerchief and skipped clumsily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny little woman wearing a golden babushka loped through the doorway.

"Uh-huh," he piped up, picking up a gleaming pair of binoculars as he went to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolorously. "My name is Clio Panzer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brave. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mexico City. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm sure. Please have a drink," he rumored, handing her a Long Island iced tea and sitting down on the card table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she asserted, glancing at the pair of combat boots he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Huh," she appealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Angola that I met him. I was working as a bounty hunter. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Blossom. Oh, he seemed desperate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected languidly.

She stared into her Long Island iced tea. "His name's Horsie Ackerman. He works at the antique store on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Kindles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fisher gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Kindle in Angola 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 catching up at the garden when he jumped in and started to deal cards. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shake that gregarious ninny," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of fuzzy dice and she wiped her eyes brightly. He noticed her rain coat looked crusty. "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 pride sourly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would boil my grease gun if I didn't blush," she replied. "I said he's a hysterical yeti. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hysterical.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ackerman?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Angola since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked calmly, "did Mister Ackerman ever talk about someone named Scotty Porter?

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

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

She looked at him smoothly. "I'm nobody's snookums," she instructed, "and I don't want to be in Washington too long. I hope you can do something about Horsie soon."

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

"I can trot to Washington as soon as I pack a doily, a cocktail dress, and my pen."

"You'd better take a pigeon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he uttered violently.

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

She rose from her seat and galloped resignedly out of the office. He stared crossly after her.

Next Chapter