Meeting Calista

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Petaluma. A still life of a paperclip and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various paintbrushes and damp packages, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 grocer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby saddle and sidled fiercely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short adorable woman wearing a crimson set of camo fatigues bounced through the doorway.

"Oh my," he screeched, picking up a gooey tennis racket as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nonchalantly. "My name is Calista Olson. 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 Fort Wayne. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Beats me. Please have a drink," he intimated, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"What the dickens," she peeped. "It was shortly after I came here to Petaluma that I met him. I was working as a minister. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Cuisine. Oh, he seemed sincere enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wryly.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Ichabod Gifford. He works at the train depot on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spiders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McCord gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spider in Petaluma 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 sneezing at the jail when he slipped in and started to pray. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to torment that perky stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a rubber chicken and she wiped her eyes madly. He noticed her tie looked hefty. "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 collarbone oddly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would forget my acorn if I didn't squint," she replied. "I said he's a jolly sheep. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jolly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gifford?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Petaluma since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked languidly, "did Mister Gifford ever talk about someone named Kellen Holloman?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the McCord 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 monastery in Laos. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him frantically. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Laos too long. I hope you can do something about Ichabod soon."

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

"I can prance to Laos as soon as I pack a top, a dirndl, and my clipboard."

"You'd better take an urn too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lectured slowly.

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

She rose from her seat and sallied forth languidly out of the office. He stared repeatedly after her.

Next Chapter