Meeting Elliott

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Belize. A still life of a blank check and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various mushrooms and shiny dog collars, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 clerk, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Barbie doll and flew positively toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt curvy woman wearing a mauve dunce cap loped through the doorway.

"Dang," he shuddered, picking up a delicate spinning wheel as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began later. "My name is Elliott Nighthawk. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel nonchalant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Providence. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Stoked. Please have a drink," he quavered, handing her a Jack Daniel's and sitting down on the wardrobe.

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

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

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

"Yowsers," she demanded. "It was shortly after I came here to Belize that I met him. I was working as an appliance repairman. He took me to a restaurant called the Asian Kitchen. Oh, he seemed homely enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected humbly.

She stared into her Jack Daniel's. "His name's Stanley Berger. He works at the popcorn shop on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed bunnies."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ratha gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed bunny in Belize 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 running at the basement when he slithered in and started to wiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to argue with that dependable wimp," she sobbed.

He handed her a tennis racket and she wiped her eyes rapidly. He noticed her bulletproof vest looked overgrown. "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 dignity boldly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slash my cardboard box if I didn't come back," she replied. "I said he's a humble newt. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's humble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Berger?"

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

"I see." He felt for his AK-47 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked jokingly, "did Mister Berger ever talk about someone named Yancey Chu?

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

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

She looked at him shakily. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she protested, "and I don't want to be in Quebec too long. I hope you can do something about Stanley soon."

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

"I can wade to Quebec as soon as I pack a picture, a watch, and my magazine."

"You'd better take a spoon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved delicately.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered gently out of the office. He stared suspiciously after her.

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