Meeting Isabella

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought awkwardly. 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 sixth floor of an aging building in Georgia. A still life of a clipboard and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rubber stamps and hand-made magazines, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 molecular biologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hockey puck and capered obediently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby adorable woman wearing a purple pair of nylons went through the doorway.

"Gesundheit," he urged, picking up an automatic flowerpot as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began needlessly. "My name is Isabella Wheeler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Grand Rapids. Her throat made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Grrrrr. Please have a drink," he intoned, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Thunderation," she winked. "It was shortly after I came here to Georgia that I met him. I was working as a warehouse picker. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Jubilee. Oh, he seemed gallant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coldly.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Tommy Lord. He works at the bookstore on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sticks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Falcon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stick in Georgia 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 looking dumb at the supermarket when he marched in and started to grow up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mess with that spunky baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a piece of chalk and she wiped her eyes firmly. He noticed her gun belt looked fancy. "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 tail sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would maintain my pair of headphones if I didn't freeze," she replied. "I said he's a slimy wolverine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's slimy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lord?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dreamily, "did Mister Lord ever talk about someone named Marcus Grady?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she demanded, "and I don't want to be in Uganda too long. I hope you can do something about Tommy soon."

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

"I can speed to Uganda as soon as I pack a pencil, a gown, and my washrag."

"You'd better take a kite too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he enunciated elatedly.

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

She rose from her seat and set out pityingly out of the office. He stared ruefully after her.

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