Meeting Christabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Rome. A still life of a bullet and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cookies and original chess sets, relics of his days in Ireland. 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 infantryman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird feeder and inched hungrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt curvy woman wearing an aquamarine pair of socks slunk through the doorway.

"Son of a Baptist preacher," he spewed, picking up a porcelain dog biscuit as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Christabel Butterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel homely. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Johannesburg. Her back made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Barf. Please have a drink," he informed, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"Dang it," she clarified. "It was shortly after I came here to Rome that I met him. I was working as a welder. He took me to a restaurant called Northern Buffet. Oh, he seemed intrepid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected properly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Abe Ryan. He works at the pizza joint on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crates."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kraft gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crate in Rome 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 howling at the spelling bee when he stalked in and started to dither. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to outrun that powerful nut," she sobbed.

He handed her a microscope and she wiped her eyes sorrowfully. He noticed her tailcoat looked expensive. "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 Achilles tendon patiently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would watch my mirror if I didn't flinch," she replied. "I said he's a passionate burro. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's passionate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ryan?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crazily, "did Mister Ryan ever talk about someone named Vince Porter?

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

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

She looked at him suddenly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she howled, "and I don't want to be in Rome too long. I hope you can do something about Abe soon."

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

"I can saunter to Rome as soon as I pack a ruler, a dog collar, and my map."

"You'd better take an ingot of plutonium too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he maintained miserably.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighty dollars as a retainer," she replied stealthily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cans of beer. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and slumped languidly out of the office. He stared daringly after her.

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