Meeting Camille

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Scottsdale. A still life of a pinwheel and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hubcaps and authentic diagrams, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 administrative assistant, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby trash can and sailed hungrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine wizened woman wearing a burgundy sweatshirt loped through the doorway.

"Grrrrr," he griped, picking up a prickly box as he trotted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began merrily. "My name is Camille Fosbury. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brave. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Myrtle Beach. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alright. Please have a drink," he sneered, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the overstuffed chair.

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

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

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

"Righto," she growled. "It was shortly after I came here to Scottsdale that I met him. I was working as a pharmacist. He took me to a restaurant called In and Out Tiger. Oh, he seemed awkward enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daringly.

She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's Randall Rudnick. He works at the bank on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in charts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mainz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chart in Scottsdale 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 fretting at the garden when he darted in and started to take a bath. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to suspect that garrulous scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a cane and she wiped her eyes proudly. He noticed her military uniform looked brightly-colored. "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 happily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would chisel my dish if I didn't stretch," she replied. "I said he's a somber moose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's somber.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rudnick?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Scottsdale since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Rudnick ever talk about someone named Robin Daniels?

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

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

She looked at him quickly. "I'm nobody's sugar plum," she announced, "and I don't want to be in Hell too long. I hope you can do something about Randall soon."

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

"I can lope to Hell as soon as I pack a Bunsen burner, a garland, and my stack of papers."

"You'd better take a knitting needle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whined obediently.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed repeatedly out of the office. He stared trustingly after her.

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