Meeting Hazel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a mop and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pens and curved salt shakers, relics of his days in Romania. 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 chauffeur, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby handkerchief and hobbled clumsily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat disheveled woman wearing a violet gown flounced through the doorway.

"Begad," he ranted, picking up a soft purse as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began kindly. "My name is Hazel Wooten. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel relaxed. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Colorado Springs. Her back made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "When pigs fly. Please have a drink," he blurted, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the pillow.

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

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

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

"Abracadabra," she spoke up. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as an astrologer. He took me to a restaurant called Pacific Galaxy. Oh, he seemed gentle enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lazily.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Ethan Kuta. He works at the police station on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hot potatoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sokoloff gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hot potato in Romania 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 flinching at the senior citizens center when he sallied forth in and started to cringe. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reeducate that smart monster," she sobbed.

He handed her a teddy bear and she wiped her eyes impatiently. He noticed her tarboosh looked rusty. "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 pancreas temperamentally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whirl my shovel if I didn't nod," she replied. "I said he's a petulant bunny. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's petulant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kuta?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Romania since then."

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

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

He sounded more blubbery 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 gesticulated for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like black pepper since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked ingeniously, "did Mister Kuta ever talk about someone named Zack Grayheels?

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

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

She looked at him hopefully. "I'm nobody's twinkle toes," she warbled, "and I don't want to be in Portland too long. I hope you can do something about Ethan soon."

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

"I can march to Portland as soon as I pack a fish, a turtleneck, and my basket."

"You'd better take a box too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he complained dreamily.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled lightly out of the office. He stared sternly after her.

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