Meeting Betty

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Bhutan. A still life of a fishing rod and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cotton balls and chic pencils, relics of his days in Jordan. 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 designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby spinning wheel and hopped suspiciously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky sleek woman wearing a metallic red watch struggled through the doorway.

"Feh," he swore, picking up a slimy bag of groceries as he sped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began recklessly. "My name is Betty Esser. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel unruffled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Podunk Hollow. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Nonsense. Please have a drink," he harangued, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

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

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

"Unbelievable," she acknowledged. "It was shortly after I came here to Bhutan that I met him. I was working as an aeronautical engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Egyptian Kitchen. Oh, he seemed nonchalant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fervently.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Shawn Watts. He works at the bar on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Colt 45s."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Esser gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Colt 45 in Bhutan 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 falling asleep at the orchestra concert when he galloped in and started to tread water. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to grab that melancholic courier," she sobbed.

He handed her a fork and she wiped her eyes warmly. He noticed her birthday suit looked burned. "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 pituitary gland urgently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would open my cigarette lighter if I didn't fidget," she replied. "I said he's a direct donkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's direct.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Watts?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Bhutan since then."

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

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

He sounded more bold than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Adam's apple like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and snored for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like barbeque since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked jokingly, "did Mister Watts ever talk about someone named Ben Kilroy?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Esser operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tinky-wink, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice log cabin in Sierra Leone. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him nonchalantly. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she wept, "and I don't want to be in Sierra Leone too long. I hope you can do something about Shawn soon."

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

"I can stride to Sierra Leone as soon as I pack a coupon, a scarf, and my Van Gogh."

"You'd better take a skull too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he griped sagely.

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

She rose from her seat and dashed ingeniously out of the office. He stared deftly after her.

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