Meeting Stella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Tallahassee. A still life of a paintbrush and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pieces of chalk and multicolored ice cream cones, relics of his days in the United States. 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 secretary, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby saw and cantered stupidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin dashing woman wearing a magenta armband stormed through the doorway.

"Hah," he realized, picking up a big rose as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began testily. "My name is Stella Sokolov. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gregarious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tacoma. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gawwwleeee. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Holy mackerel," she sighed. "It was shortly after I came here to Tallahassee that I met him. I was working as a magician. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Den. Oh, he seemed decisive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Waldo Booth. He works at the video arcade on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in muffins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Killeen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a muffin in Tallahassee 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 puzzled at the city park when he galloped in and started to yell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to try to control that miniscule chowderhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a tote bag and she wiped her eyes sharply. He noticed her bodysuit looked fabulous. "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 ear hungrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pluck my calling card if I didn't fret," she replied. "I said he's a dreadful giraffe. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dreadful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Booth?"

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

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

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

He sounded more peculiar than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his pituitary gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and showed up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fried chicken since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked sympathetically, "did Mister Booth ever talk about someone named Kenneth Spanbauer?

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

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

She looked at him dolefully. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in Sudan too long. I hope you can do something about Waldo soon."

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

"I can roll to Sudan as soon as I pack a bagpipe, a tuxedo, and my thumb drive."

"You'd better take a cowbell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chanted anxiously.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled effortlessly out of the office. He stared crankily after her.

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