Meeting Camella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Pennsylvania. A still life of a candle and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various toilet seats and hand-carved brochures, relics of his days in Brazil. 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 butler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flashlight and scampered furiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby roly-poly woman wearing a pink pair of nylons swaggered through the doorway.

"You bet," he bragged, picking up a woven key as he sauntered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quickly. "My name is Camella Escobar. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel earnest. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Brasilia. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shame. Please have a drink," he shrieked, handing her a milkshake and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"Sheesh," she agreed. "It was shortly after I came here to Pennsylvania that I met him. I was working as a page. He took me to a restaurant called London Forest. Oh, he seemed happy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courageously.

She stared into her milkshake. "His name's Ben Stringer. He works at the insurance agency on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dollar bills."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Papadopoulos gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dollar bill in Pennsylvania 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 watching at the pet store when he traipsed in and started to swoon. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to date that masculine shrimp," she sobbed.

He handed her a cotton ball and she wiped her eyes tearfully. He noticed her belt looked colossal. "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 big toe unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wiggle my feather if I didn't type," she replied. "I said he's a fuzzy cobra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fuzzy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stringer?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Pennsylvania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked haughtily, "did Mister Stringer ever talk about someone named Knuckles Dewey?

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

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

She looked at him truculently. "I'm nobody's treasure," she demanded, "and I don't want to be in Utah too long. I hope you can do something about Ben soon."

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

"I can sashay to Utah as soon as I pack a rag, a body shirt, and my chart."

"You'd better take a paper bag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he professed boisterously.

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

She rose from her seat and tore flightily out of the office. He stared resignedly after her.

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