Meeting Elena

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in St. Petersburg. A still life of a microscope and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cream puffs and cheap Bunsen burners, 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 groundskeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby helmet and waddled speedily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small handsome woman wearing an aqua set of football pads capered through the doorway.

"Okay," he rationalized, picking up a damaged egg shell as he clambered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began openly. "My name is Elena Reyes. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dowdy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Paris. Her dignity made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Congratulations. Please have a drink," he sobbed, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the sofa.

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

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

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

"Great," she exclaimed. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Petersburg that I met him. I was working as an FBI Agent. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Wok. Oh, he seemed frightened enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gratefully.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Nestor Fox. He works at the café on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dog collars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bogart gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dog collar in St. Petersburg 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 crouching at the beach when he skittered in and started to snore. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to awe that dignified wastrel," she sobbed.

He handed her an urn and she wiped her eyes automatically. He noticed her beret looked old. "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 vein lamely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would return my dart if I didn't raise an eyebrow," she replied. "I said he's an angry snake. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's angry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fox?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in St. Petersburg since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sleepily, "did Mister Fox ever talk about someone named Corbin Eaton?

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

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

She looked at him recklessly. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she implored, "and I don't want to be in Iowa too long. I hope you can do something about Nestor soon."

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

"I can speed to Iowa as soon as I pack a box of candy, a gladiator helmet, and my calling card."

"You'd better take a brush too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he proposed woefully.

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

She rose from her seat and walked immediately out of the office. He stared mysteriously after her.

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