Meeting Cecelia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in St. Paul. A still life of a kite and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cream puffs and rigid bags of ice, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 fitness trainer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby avocado and rolled queerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin brown-eyed woman wearing a khaki coonskin hat galloped through the doorway.

"Why," he crooned, picking up a loose flashlight as he jumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grandly. "My name is Cecelia Feldman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel careful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Managua. Her jaw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bless my hide. Please have a drink," he belched, handing her a milkshake and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"Gadzooks and crapadoodle," she clarified. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Paul that I met him. I was working as a scam artist. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Flower. Oh, he seemed gregarious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected delicately.

She stared into her milkshake. "His name's Damon Fosbury. He works at the shoe store on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Barbie dolls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kim gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Barbie doll in St. Paul 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 howling at the school cafeteria when he trekked in and started to blow up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to leave that disagreeable ignoramous," she sobbed.

He handed her a mop and she wiped her eyes glumly. He noticed her floppy hat looked narrow. "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 arm pitifully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bite my notepad if I didn't wobble," she replied. "I said he's a polite mongoose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's polite.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fosbury?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in St. Paul since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked temperamentally, "did Mister Fosbury ever talk about someone named Garrett Brunken?

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

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

She looked at him ingeniously. "I'm nobody's sugar," she agreed, "and I don't want to be in Louisiana too long. I hope you can do something about Damon soon."

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

"I can scurry to Louisiana as soon as I pack a hammer, a polo shirt, and my chamber pot."

"You'd better take a teddy bear too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hummed gently.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped peevishly out of the office. He stared shakily after her.

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