Meeting Stella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Paris. A still life of a billfold and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various notepads and plastic pillows, relics of his days in Russia. 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 tax collector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rubber chicken and slunk merrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout small woman wearing a yellow pair of galoshes careened through the doorway.

"Horse feathers," he taunted, picking up a used cream puff as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel enchanting. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Córdoba. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aha. Please have a drink," he gabbed, handing her a latte and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Uh-oh," she invited. "It was shortly after I came here to Paris that I met him. I was working as an elementary school teacher. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed dumb enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected patiently.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Julian Weber. He works at the bookstore on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper clips."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Chandler gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper clip in Paris 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 standing by at the health food store when he padded in and started to party. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to neglect that drowsy bumpkin," she sobbed.

He handed her a notepad and she wiped her eyes intensely. He noticed her nose ring looked hideous. "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 head hastily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would control my pencil if I didn't pause," she replied. "I said he's a furry rabbit. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's furry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Weber?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Paris since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Weber ever talk about someone named Randall Nabokov?

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

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

She looked at him dreamily. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she stormed, "and I don't want to be in Richmond too long. I hope you can do something about Julian soon."

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

"I can stagger to Richmond as soon as I pack a hat, a raincoat, and my fish bowl."

"You'd better take a chart too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he agreed excitedly.

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

She rose from her seat and sprinted sadly out of the office. He stared excitedly after her.

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