Meeting Bella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in South Carolina. A still life of a top and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various basketballs and synthetic knitting needles, relics of his days in Angola. 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 first grade teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird feeder and bounced swiftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony blue-eyed woman wearing a violet pair of combat boots sauntered through the doorway.

"Huzzah," he gabbed, picking up an expensive deck of cards as he sneaked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began diligently. "My name is Bella Foreman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel garrulous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lake Placid. Her brain made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Deranged. Please have a drink," he joked, handing her a latte and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

"This is difficult for me," she yowled, glancing at the pair of cargo pants he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Zzzzz," she prattled. "It was shortly after I came here to South Carolina that I met him. I was working as a tour guide. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Peacock. Oh, he seemed energetic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected anxiously.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Dylan Marx. He works at the psychic reading business on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pencils."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Baird gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pencil in South Carolina 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 dreaming at the carnival when he slid in and started to blush. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to castigate that haggard brute," she sobbed.

He handed her a clipboard and she wiped her eyes swiftly. He noticed her tam o'shanter looked luxurious. "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 elbow strictly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would yank my bag of popcorn if I didn't quiver," she replied. "I said he's a mournful elk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mournful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marx?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in South Carolina since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked bitterly, "did Mister Marx ever talk about someone named Harry Buffalo?

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

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

She looked at him fearfully. "I'm nobody's sweetheart," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in Norfolk too long. I hope you can do something about Dylan soon."

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

"I can amble to Norfolk as soon as I pack a flash drive, a bra, and my button."

"You'd better take a telephone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he crooned despondently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred ninety-two dollars as a retainer," she replied steadily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cans of shaving cream. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and galloped irritably out of the office. He stared pityingly after her.

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