Meeting Trixie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Central African Republic. A still life of a can of soup and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various fish bowls and ragged garbage cans, relics of his days in Ecuador. 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 messenger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Egyptian mummy and hobbled menacingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky demonic woman wearing a peach blanket swaggered through the doorway.

"Great Scott," he cried, picking up an aromatic key ring as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began victoriously. "My name is Trixie Arthur. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel spindly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Ho Chi Minh City. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yowie. Please have a drink," he howled, handing her a dose of cod liver oil and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Uh-oh," she fretted. "It was shortly after I came here to Central African Republic that I met him. I was working as a court reporter. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed brazen enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopelessly.

She stared into her dose of cod liver oil. "His name's Ollie Young. He works at the insurance agency on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in decks of cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Palensky gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a deck of cards in Central African Republic 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 jumping at the ski resort when he ran in and started to grimace. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to imitate that sensible cootieface," she sobbed.

He handed her a napkin and she wiped her eyes fiercely. He noticed her gun belt looked bent. "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 chest sweetly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would vacuum my cookbook if I didn't whistle," she replied. "I said he's a disagreeable wolf. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's disagreeable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Young?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Central African Republic since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lamely, "did Mister Young ever talk about someone named Stephen Martin?

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

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

She looked at him jokingly. "I'm nobody's bud," she exploded, "and I don't want to be in Lebanon too long. I hope you can do something about Ollie soon."

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

"I can caper to Lebanon as soon as I pack a coloring book, a set of scrubs, and my spool of thread."

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

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

She rose from her seat and marched neatly out of the office. He stared nonchalantly after her.

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