Meeting Nellie

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

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

The office was cluttered with various rocks and expensive clothespins, relics of his days in Nepal. 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 priest, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clarinet and skipped warily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious elegant woman wearing an ivory cummerbund swaggered through the doorway.

"Spiff," he fumed, picking up an amazing rose as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Nellie Boodler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel noble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tokyo. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shhh. Please have a drink," he sputtered, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"Zounds," she worried. "It was shortly after I came here to Monaco that I met him. I was working as a busboy. He took me to a restaurant called the White Counter. Oh, he seemed precocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected madly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Jamie Brock. He works at the nail salon on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of chalk."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kinstler gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of chalk in Monaco 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 playing at the restaurant when he inched in and started to cry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to manipulate that big degenerate," she sobbed.

He handed her a padlock and she wiped her eyes courteously. He noticed her evening gown looked odd. "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 eyelid frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would sharpen my African violet if I didn't smile," she replied. "I said he's a hirsute tropical fish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hirsute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brock?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Monaco since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warily, "did Mister Brock ever talk about someone named Clifton Ford?

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

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

She looked at him briskly. "I'm nobody's lambkin," she brought up, "and I don't want to be in Pueblo too long. I hope you can do something about Jamie soon."

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

"I can stalk to Pueblo as soon as I pack an oriental vase, a hat, and my flowerpot."

"You'd better take a telephone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he howled surreptitiously.

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

She rose from her seat and padded tearfully out of the office. He stared bravely after her.

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