Meeting Clarisa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Long Beach. A still life of a protest sign and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various campaign signs and amazing toilet seats, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 chain and blundered bitterly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed frail woman wearing a green pair of moccasins bounded through the doorway.

"Alley oop," he guessed, picking up an imported needle and thread as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began rapidly. "My name is Clarisa Gong. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disgusting. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Trenton. Her lip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Wow. Please have a drink," he debated, handing her a bottle of rum and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Neato," she hissed. "It was shortly after I came here to Long Beach that I met him. I was working as a disk jockey. He took me to a restaurant called Moroccan Lotus. Oh, he seemed cruel enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ingeniously.

She stared into her bottle of rum. "His name's Cyrus Zhu. He works at the bakery on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hair brushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hill gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hair brush in Long Beach 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 dithering at the dance when he bounced in and started to mumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to encourage that poised dirty dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a muffin and she wiped her eyes thoughtfully. He noticed her towel looked used. "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 face quietly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shake my stuffed kitten if I didn't collapse," she replied. "I said he's a gregarious antelope. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gregarious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zhu?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Long Beach since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked kindly, "did Mister Zhu ever talk about someone named Thaddeus Popper?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Hill 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 Victorian mansion in Bagdad. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him later. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she articulated, "and I don't want to be in Bagdad too long. I hope you can do something about Cyrus soon."

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

"I can climb to Bagdad as soon as I pack a ticket, a pair of false eyelashes, and my radio."

"You'd better take a spinning wheel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pronounced clumsily.

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

She rose from her seat and crept unnaturally out of the office. He stared oddly after her.

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