Meeting Abbie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Poland. A still life of a bottle of perfume and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various brooms and miniature coat hangers, relics of his days in Easter Island. 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 air traffic controller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack of potatoes and clambered woodenly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe ruddy woman wearing a carrot-orange toupee sprinted through the doorway.

"Help," he yammered, picking up a sophisticated whoopee cushion as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began mysteriously. "My name is Abbie Weatherford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel coy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cologne. Her little finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Not on your life. Please have a drink," he thought, handing her a cambric tea and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Tut-tut," she explained. "It was shortly after I came here to Poland that I met him. I was working as an animal trainer. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Galaxy. Oh, he seemed self-confident enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her cambric tea. "His name's Dirk Clemmons. He works at the pub on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in African violets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sargent gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an African violet in Poland 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 sitting still at the jail when he zipped in and started to snore. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to subdue that furious doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a bag of popcorn and she wiped her eyes deliberately. He noticed her pair of ear muffs looked aromatic. "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 heel jokingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wallop my teddy bear if I didn't dawdle," she replied. "I said he's a decent cocker spaniel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's decent.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Clemmons?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Poland since then."

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

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

He sounded more menacing than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his belly button 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 rotting meat since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked ferociously, "did Mister Clemmons ever talk about someone named Pops Sledge?

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

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

She looked at him vigorously. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she rationalized, "and I don't want to be in Berkeley too long. I hope you can do something about Dirk soon."

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

"I can breeze to Berkeley as soon as I pack a file folder, a set of dentures, and my clarinet."

"You'd better take a sea shell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rationalized innocently.

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

She rose from her seat and slunk haughtily out of the office. He stared zestily after her.

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