Meeting Ellen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Kyrgyzstan. A still life of a bat and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flags and rare hair dryers, 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 ballroom dancer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby feather duster and leapt boldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight bedraggled woman wearing a striped belly button jewel skidded through the doorway.

"Quick," he rumored, picking up a rough ruler as he slunk to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shakily. "My name is Ellen Wyse. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel masculine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Knoxville. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Uh-huh. Please have a drink," he worried, handing her a Mai Tai and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"Ow," she interrupted. "It was shortly after I came here to Kyrgyzstan that I met him. I was working as a mason. He took me to a restaurant called New York Bowl. Oh, he seemed fashionable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fearfully.

She stared into her Mai Tai. "His name's Richard Cadwallader. He works at the convenience store on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in keys."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dubois gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a key in Kyrgyzstan 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 dying at the disco when he traipsed in and started to jiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to jump on that radiant thug," she sobbed.

He handed her an avocado and she wiped her eyes openly. He noticed her cloak looked leather. "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 buttocks unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pick my coffee pot if I didn't peep," she replied. "I said he's a monstrous hermit crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's monstrous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cadwallader?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked energetically, "did Mister Cadwallader ever talk about someone named Octavio Whitefoot?

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

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

She looked at him uselessly. "I'm nobody's babe," she growled, "and I don't want to be in Brazil too long. I hope you can do something about Richard soon."

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

"I can lumber to Brazil as soon as I pack a can of soup, a birthday suit, and my can of shaving cream."

"You'd better take a candy cane too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he acknowledged tearfully.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced rapidly out of the office. He stared primly after her.

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